•Bi 


V.. 


I  DEAL A 


BY 


SARAH    GRAND 


Author  of  "HEAVENLY  TWINS,"  Ett 


CHICAGO: 

OONOHUE,  HENNEBERRY  &  CO. 
407-435  DEARBORN  STREET. 


L'esprit  ne  BGJ.S  garantit  pas 
des  sottises  de  notre  humeur. 

-  VAUVEX  ARGUES, 


PREFACE. 


You  ask  me,  perhaps,  even  you  who  are  all  charity,  why 
parts  of  this  book  are  what  they  are.  I  can  only  answer 
with  another  question  :  Why  are  we  what  we  are  ?  But  I 
warn  you  that  it  would  not  be  fair  to  take  any  of  Ideala's 
opinions,  here  given,  as  final.  Much  of  what  she  thought 
was  the  mere  effervescence  of  a  strong  mind  in  a  state  of 
fermentation,  a  mind  passing  successively  through  the 
three  stages  of  the  process  :  the  vinoits,  alcoholic,  or  excit- 
able stage;  the  acetous,  jaundiced,  orimbittered  stage;  and 
the  £) ut ref 'active,  or  unwholesome  stage  ;  and  also  embody- 
ing, at  different  times,  the  characteristics  of  all  three.  But, 
even  during  its  worst  phase,  it  was  an  earnest  mind,  seek- 
ing the  truth  diligently,  and  not  to  be  blamed  for  stumbling 
upon  good  and  bad  together  by  the  way.  It  is,  in  fact,  not 
a  perfect,  but  a  transitional,  state  which  I  offer  for  your 
consideration,  a  state  which  has  its  repulsive  features,  but 
which,  it  may  be  hoped,  would  result  in  a  beautiful  de- 
posit, when  at  last  the  inevitable  effervescence  had 
subsided. 

But  why  exhibit  the  details  of  the  process?  you  may  ask. 
To  encourage  others,  of  course.  "What  help  is  there  in  the 
contemplation  of  perfection  ready  made?  It  only  dis- 
heartens us.  We  should  lay  down  our  arms,  we  should 
struggle  no  longer,  we  should  be  hopeless,  despairing, 
reckless,  if  we  never  had  a  glimpse  of  growth,  of  those 
"  stepping-stones  of  their  dead  selves "  upon  which  men 
mount  to  higher  things.  The  imperfections  must  be 


iv  PREFACE, 

studied,  because  it  is  only  from  the  details  of  the  process 
that  anything  can  be  learned.  Putting  aside  the  people 
who  criticise,  not  with  a  view  to  mending  matters,  but  be- 
cause a 

low  desire 

Not  to  seem  lowest  makes  them  level  all ; 

the  people  who  judge,  who  condemn,  who  have  no  mercy 
on  any  faults  and  failings  but  their  own,  and  who, 

if  they  find 

Some  stain  or  blemish  in  a  name  of  note, 
Not  grieving  that  their  greatest  are  so  small, 
Inflate  themselves  with  some  insane  delight, 

and  would  ostracize  a  neighbor  for  the  first  offense  by  rul- 
ing that  one  mistake  must  mar  a  life— anybody's  life  but 
their  own,  of  course  ;  who  have  no  peace  in  themselves,  no 
habit  of  sweet  thought ;  whose  lives  are  one  long  agony  of 
excitement,  objection,  envy,  hate,  and  unrest ;  the  decently 
clad  devils  of  society  who  may  be  known  by  their  eternal 
carping,  and  who  are  already  in  torment,  and  doing  their 
utmost  to  drag  others  after  them.  Putting  them  aside, 
as  any  one  may  who  has  the  courage  to  face  them— for 
they  are  terrible  cowards — and  taking  the  best  of  us,  and 
the  best  intentioned  among  us,  we  find  that  all  are  apt  to 
make  some  one  trait  in  the  characters,  some  one  trick  in 
the  manners,  some  one  incident  in  the  lives  of  people  we 
meet  the  text  of  an  objection  to  the  whole  person.  And  a 
state  of  objection  is  a  miserable  state,  and  a  dangerous 
one,  because  it  stops  our  growth  by  robbing  us  of  half  our 
power  to  love,  in  which  lies  all  our  strength,  and  which, 
with  the  delight  of  being  loved,  is  the  one  thing  worth 
living  for.  When  we  know  in  ourselves  that  love  is 
heaven,  and  hate  is  hell,  and  all  the  intervals  of  like  and 
dislike  are  ante-chambers  to  either,  we  possess  the  key  to 
joy  and  sorrow,  by  which  alone  we  can  attain  to  the  mys- 
Jery  that  may  not  be  mentioned  here,  but  beyond  which 
ecstasy  awaits  us. 


PREFACE.  7 

This  is  why  such  details  arc  necessary. 

Doctors-spiritual  must  face  the  horrors  of  the  dissecting- 
rooin,  and  learn  before  they  can  cure  or  teach  ;  and  even 
we,  poor  feeble  creatures,  who  have  no  strength,  however 
great  our  desire,  to  do  either,  can  help  at  least  a  little  by 
not  hindering,  if  we  attend  to  our  own  mental  health, 
which  we  shall  do  all  the  better  for  knowing  something  of 
our  moral  anatomy,  and  the  diseases  to  which  it  is  liable. 
We  hate  and  despise  in  our  ignorance,  and  grow  weak  ; 
but  love  and  pity  thrive  on  knowledge,  and  to  love  and 
pity  we  owe  all  the  beauty  of  life,  and  all  our  highest 
power. 


"Ideala"  is  the  name  of  an  unconventional  young 
English  woman  possessed  of  many  ideas,  which  she  ex- 
presses freely  and  at  length  ;  they  refer  chiefly  to  the 
marriage  relation,  social  immorality,  the  education  of 
•women,  and  the  equality  of  men  and  women.  Her  story  is 
a  brief  and  familiar  one  ;  she  is  tempted  to  leave  a  brutal 
and  unfaithful  husband  for  the  protection  of  a  man  she 
loves,  but  is  prevented  taking  the  step  through  the  wise 
counsel  of  a  friend.  She  leaves  her  husband's  roof,  how- 
ever, and  after  a  year  spent  in  China  returns  to  England  to 
devote  the  remainder  of  her  life  to  the  weak  and  erring  of 
her  own  sex.  "Ideala"  appears  again  in  "The  Heavenly 
Twins."— REVIEW. 


ID  E  ALA. 


CHAPTER  I. 

SHE  came  among  us  without  flourish  of  trumpets.  She 
just  slipped  into  her  place  almost  unnoticed,  but  once  she 
was  settled  there  it  seemed  as  if  we  had  got  something  we 
had  wanted  all  our  lives,  and  we  should  have  missed  her 
as  you  would  miss  the  thrushes  in  the  spring,  or  any  other 
sweet  familiar  thing.  But  what  the  secret  of  her  charm 
was  I  cannot  say.  She  was  full  of  inconsistencies.  She 
disliked  ostentation,  and  never  wore  those  ornamental  fidg- 
ets ladies  delight  in,  but  she  would  take  a  piece  of  price- 
less lace  to  cover  her  head  when  she  went  to  water  her 
flowers.  And  she  said  rings  were  a  mistake  ;  if  your  hands 
were  ugly,  they  drew  attention  to  them;  if  pretty,  they  hid 
their  beauty ;  yet  she  wore  half  a  dozen  worthless  ones 
habitually  for  the  love  of  those  who  gave  them  to  her. 

It  was  said  that  she  was  striking  in  appearance,  but  cold 
and  indifferent  in  manner.  Some,  on  whom  she  had  never 
turned  her  eyes,  called  her  repellant.  But  it  was  noticed 
that  men  who  took  her  down  to  dinner,  or  had  any  other 
opportunity  of  talking  to  her,  were  never  very  positive  in 
what  they  said  of  her  afterward.  She  made  every  one, 
men  and  women  alike,  feel,  and  she  did  it  unconsciously. 
"Without  effort,  without  eccentricity,  without  anything  you 
could  name  or  define,  she  impressed  you,  and  she  held  you 
—or  at  least  she  held  me,  always— expectant.  Nothing 


8  IDEALA. 

about  her  ever  seemed  to  be  of  the  present.  When  she 
talked  she  made  you  wonder  what  her  past  had  been,  and 
when  she  was  silent  you  began  to  speculate  about  her 
future.  But  she  did  not  talk  much  as  a  rule,  and  when 
she  did  speak  it  was  always  some  subject  of  interest,  some 
fact  that  she  wanted  to  ascertain  accurately,  or  some  beau- 
tiful idea,  that  occupied  her  ;  she  had  absolutely  no  small- 
talk  for  any  but  her  most  intimate  friends,  whom  she  was 
wont  at  times  to  amuse  with  an  endless  stock  of  anecdotes 
and  quaint  observations  :  and  this  made  people  of  limited 
capacity  hard  on  her.  Some  of  them  called  her  a  cold, 
ambitious,  unsympathetic  woman ;  and  perhaps,  from 
their  point  of  view,  she  was  so.  She  certainly  aspired  to 
something  far  above  them,  and  had  nothing  but  scorn  for 
the  dead  level  of  dull  mediocrity  from  which  they  would 
not  try  to  rise. 

"To  be  distinguished  among  these  people,"  she  onca 
said,  "  it  is  only  necessary  to  have  one's  heart 

Dowered  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn, 
The  love  of  love. 

There  is  no  need  to  do  anything ;  if  you  have  the  right 
feeling  you  may  be  as  passive  as  a  cow,  and  still  excel  them 
all,  for  they  never  thrill  to  a  noble  thought. " 

"Then,  pity  them,"  I  said. 

•  "  No,  despise  them,"  she  answered.  "  Pity  is  for  afflic- 
tion, for  such  shortcomings  as  are  hereditary  and  can 
hardly  be  remedied— for  the  taint  in  nature  which  is  all 
but  hopeless.  But  these  people  are  not  afflicted.  They 
could  do  better  if  they  would.  They  know  the  higher 
walk,  and  deliberately  pursue  the  lower.  Their  whole 
feeling  is  for  themselves,  and  such  things  as  have  power  to 
move  them  through  the  flesh  only.  I  would  almost  rather 
sin  on  the  impulse  of  a  generous  but  misguided  nature, 
and  have  the  power  to  appreciate  and  the  will  to  be  better, 
than  live  a  perfect,  loveless  woman,  caring  only  for  myself, 
like  these.  I  should  do  more  good.  " 


IDEALA.  9 

They  called  Ideala  unsympathetic,  yet  I  have  known  her 
silent  from  excess  of  sympathy.  She  could  walk  with  you, 
reading  your  heart  and  soul,  sorrowing  and  rejoicing  with 
you,  and  make  you  feel,  without  a  word,  that  she  did  so. 
It  was  this  power  to  sympathize,  and  the  longing  she  had 
to  find  good  in  everything,  that  made  her  forgive  the 
faults  that  were  patent  in  a  nature  with  which  she  was 
finally  brought  into  contact,  for  the  sake  of  the  virtues 
which  she  discovered  hidden  away  deep  down  under  a 
Slowly  hardening  crust  of  that  kind  of  self-indulgence  which 
mars  a  man. 

But  her  own  life  was  set  to  a  tune  that  admitted  of  end- 
less variations.  Sometimes  it  was  difficult  even  for  those 
who  knew  her  best  to  detect  the  original  melody  among 
the  clashing  chords  that  concealed  it ;  but,  let  it  be  hidden 
as  it  might,  one  felt  that  it  would  resolve  itself  eventually, 
through  many  a  jarring  modulation  and  startling  cadence, 
perhaps,  back  to  the  perfect  key.  ^ 

I  saw  her  first  at  a  garden-party.  She  scarcely  noticed 
me  when  we  were  introduced.  There  were  great  masses 
of  white  cloud  drifting  up  over  the  blue  above  the  garden, 
and  she  was  wholly  occupied  with  them  when  she  could 
watch  them  without  rudeness  to  those  about  her  ;  and  even 
when  she  was  obliged  to  look  away,  I  could  see  that  she 
was  still  thinking  of  the  sky. 

"Do  you  live  much  in  cloud-land ?"  I  asked,  and  felt 
for  a  moment  I  had  said  a  silly  thing  ;  but  she  turned  to 
me  quickly,  and  looked  at  me  for  the  first  time  as  if  she 
saw  me — and  whan  I  say  she  looked  at  me,  I  mean  some- 
thing more  than  an  ordinary  look,  for  Ideala's  eyes  were 
a  wonder,  affecting  you  as  a  [poem  does  which  has  power 
to  exalt. 

"Ah,  you  feel  it,  too,"  she  said.  "Are  they  not  beauti- 
ful ?  Will  you  sit  beside  me  here  ?  You  can  see  the  river 
as  well— down  there,  beneath  the  trees." 

I  thought  she  would  have  talked  after  that,  but  she  did 
not.  Wher  !>  spoke  to  her  once  or  twice  she  answered  ab- 


10  IDEALA. 

sently  ;  and  presently  she  forgot  mo  altogether,  and  began 
to  sing  to  herself  softly  : 

Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea 

Thy  tribute  wave  deliver  ; 
No  move  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be 

Forever  and  forever. 

Then  suddenly  recollecting  herself,  she  stopped,  and 
exclaimed,  in  much  confusion  : 

"  Oh,  please  forgive  me  !  That  stupid  thing  has  been 
running  in  my  head  all  day — and  it  is  a  way  I  have.  I 
al  vays  forget  people  and  begin  to  sing." 

She  did  not  see  in  the  least  that  her  apology  might/  have 
been  considered  an  adding;  of  insult  to  injury,  and,  of 
course,  I  was  careful  not  to  let  her  know  that  I  thought  it 
so,  although  I  must  confess  that  for  a  moment  I  felt  just 
a  trifle  aggrieved.  I  thought  my  presence  bad  bored  her, 
and  was  surprised  to  see,  when  I  got  up  to  go,  that  she 
would  rather  have  had  ir.e  stay. 

She  cared  little  for  people  in  general,  and  had  few  lik- 
ings. It  was  love  with  her,  if  anything  ;  but  those  whom 
she  loved  onco  ?ho  loved  aiv.".°.y. ,  ru'ver  cliraiging  in  her 
affection  for  them,  however  badly  they  might  treat  her. 
Arid  she  had  the  power  of  liking  people  for  themselves, 
regardless  of  their  feeling  for  her ;  indeed,  her  indifference 
on  this  score  was  curious.  I  once  heard  a  lady  say  to  her  : 

' '  You  are  one  of  the  few  young  married  ladies  whom  I 
dare  chaperon  in  the?e  degenerate  days.  No  degree  of 
admiration  or  worship  ever  seems  to  touch  you.  Is  it  real 
or  pretended,  your  unconsciousness?" 

"  Unconsciousness  of  what?" 

"Of  the  feeling  you  excite." 

"The  feeling  I  excite?"  Ideaia  seemed  to  think  a  mo- 
ment, then  sin*  answered  gravely  :  "  I  do  not  think  I  am 
conscious  of  anything  that  relates  to  myself,  personally,  in 
my  intercourse  with  people.  They  are  ideas  to  me,  for  the 
most  part — men  especially  so." 

That  way  she  had  of  forgetting  people's  presence  was 


IDEALA.  11 

one  of  her  peculiarities.  If  she  liked  you  she  was  content 
just  to  have  you  there,  but  she  never  showed  it  except  by 
a  regretful  glance  when  you  went  away.  She  was  very 
absent,  too.  One  day  I  |found  her  with  a  big,  awkward 
volume  on  her  knee,  heated  excited,  and  evidently  put  out. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter!"  I  wanted  to  know. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  answered,  desperately;  "I've  lost  my 
pen,  and  I'm  writing  for  the  mail." 

*'•  Why,  where  are  you  looking  for  it ?  "  I  asked. 

She  glanced  at  me,  and  then  at  the  book. 

"I— I  believe,"  she  faltered,  "  I  was  looking  for  it  among 
the  p's  in  the  French  dictionary." 

On  another  occasion  I  watched  her  revising  a  manuscript. 
As  she  wrote  her  emendations  she  gummed  them  on  over 
the  old  copy,  and  she  was  so  absorbed  that  at  last  she  put 
the  gum  brush  into  the  ink-bottle.  Discovering  her  mis- 
take, she  gave  a  little  disconcerted  sort  of  laugh,  and  took 
the  brush  away  to  wash  it.  She  returned  presently,  ex- 
amining it  critically  to  see  if  it  were  perfectly  cleansed, 
and  Laving  satisfied  herself,  she  carefully  put  it  back  in 
the  ink-bottle. 

But  perhaps  the  funniest  instance  of  this  peculiarity  of 
hers  was  one  that  happened  in  the  Grosvenor  Gallery  on  a 
certain  occasion.  She  had  been  busy  with  her  catalogue, 
doing  the  pictures  conscientiously,  and  not  talking  at  all, 
when  suddenly  she  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  have  been  doing  ?  "  she  said.  "  I 
wanted-  to  know  who  that  man  is  "—indicating  a  gentle- 
man of  peculiar  appearance  in  the  crowd — "  and  I  have 
been  looking  all  over  him  for  his  number,  that  I  might 
hunt  up  his  name  in  the  catalogue!" 

Her  way  of  seeing  analogies  as  plausible  as  the  obvious 
relation  of  p  to  pen,  and  of  acting  on  wholly  wrong  conclu- 
sions deduced  from  most  unexceptionable  premises,  was 
another  characteristic.  She  always  blamed  her  early  edu- 
cation, or,  rather,  want  of  education,  for  it. 

"  If  I  had  been  taught  to  think  "  she  said,  "  when  ray 


12  IDEALA. 

memory  was  being  burdened  with  historical  anecdotes  torn 
from  the  text,  and  other  useless  scraps  of  knowledge,  I 
should  be  able  to  see  both  sides  of  a  subject,  and  judge 
rationally,  now.    As  it  is,  I  never  see  more  than  one  side 
at  a  time,  and  when  I  have  mastered  that,  I  feel  like  the 
old  judge  in  some  Greek  play,  who,  when   he  had  heard 
one  party  to  a  suit,  begged  that  the  other  would  not  speak, 
as  it  would  only  poggle  what  was  then  clear  to  him." 
But  in  this  IJeala  was  not  quite  fair  to  herself. 
It  was  not  ahvays-although,  unfortunately,  it  was  oftenest 
at  critical  moments— that  she  was  beset  with  this  inability 
to  see  more  than  one  side  of  a  subject  at  a  time.    The  odd 
thine  about  it  was  that  one  never  knew  which  side,  the 
pathetic  or  the  humorous,  would  strike  her.     Generally, 
however,  it  was  the  one  that  related  least  to  herself  per. 
sonally.     This  self-forgetfulness,  with  a  keen  sense  of  the 
ludicrous,  led    her   sometimes,    when  she  had  anything 
amusing  to  relate,  to  overlook  considerations  which  would 
have  kept  other  people  silent. 

"  I  saw  a  pair  of  horses  running  away  with  a  heavy 
wagon,  the  other  day,"  she  told  us  once.  "  It  was  in  Cross 
street,  and  there  was  a  child  in  the  way— there  always  is  a 
child  in  the  wayl— and,  as  there  was  no  one  else  to  do  it,  I 
ran  into  the  road  to  remove  that  child.  I  had  to  pull  it 
aside  quickly,  and  there  was  no  time  to  say,  '  Allow  me* 
— in  fact,  there  was  no  time  for  anything — and  in  my  hurry 
I  lost  my  balance  and  fell  in  the  mud,  and  the  wagon  came 
tearing  over  me.  It  was  an  unpleasant  sensation,  but  I 
wasn't  hurt,  you  know;  neither  the  wheels  nor  the  horses 
touched  me.  I  got  very  dirty,  though,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
I  looked  as  ridiculous  as  I  felt,  and  for  that  I  expected  to  be 
tenderly  dealt  with  ;  but  when  I  went  to  ask  after  the  child, 
a  few  days  later,  a  neighbor  told  me  that  its  mother  was  out, 
and  it  was  a  good  thing,  too,  as  she  had  been  heard  to  declare 
she  would  '  go  for  that  lady  the  next  time  she  saw  her,  for 
flingin'  of  her  bairn  about.' " 
When  she  had  told  the  story,  Ideala  was  horrified  to  find 


IDEALA.  18 

that  tfee  fact,  which  she  had  overlooked,  of  her  having 
risked  her  life  to  save  the  child  struck  us  all  much  more 
forcibly  than  the  ingratitude  that  amused  her. 

Although  her  sense  of  humor  was  keen,  it  was  not 
always,  as  I  said  before,  the  humorous  side  of  a  subject 
that  struck  her.  I  found  her  one  day  looking  utterly  mis- 
erable. 

"  What  has  happened?''  I  asked.    "  You  look  sad." 

"And  I  feel  sad,'' she  answered.  "  I  was  just  thinking 
what  a  pity  it  is  those  gay,  pleasure- loving,  flower -clad 
people  of  Hawaii  are  dying  out!" 

She  was  quite  in  earnest,  and  could  not  be  made  to  see 
that  there  was  anything  droll  in  her  mourning  poignantly 
for  a  people  so  remote. 

Another  instance  of  her  absent-mindedness  recurs  to  me. 
The  incident  was  related  at  our  house  one  evening,  in  Idea- 
la's  presence,  by  Mr.  Lloyd,  a  mutiial  friend.  A  clever  draw- 
ing by  another  friend,  of  Ideala  trying  to  force  a  cabman  to 
take  ten  shillings  for  a  half-crown  fare— one  of  the  great 
fears  of  her  life  being  the  chance  of  not  giving  people  of 
that  kind  as  much  as  they  expected — had  caused  Ideala  to 
protest  that  she  did  understand  money  matters. 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  all  know  that  your  capacity  for  business  is 
quite  extraordinary,"  Mr.  Lloyd  said,  with  a  smile  that 
meant  something.  And  then,  addressing  us  all,  he  asked: 
"  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  her  coming  to  borrow  five  shill- 
ings from  me  one  day?  Shall  I  tell,  Ideala  ?" 

"You  may  if  you  like,"  Ideala  answered,  getting  very 
red.  "  But  the  story  is  not  interesting." 

We  all  began  to  be  anxious  to  hear  about  it. 

"  Judge  for  yourselves,1'  Mr.  Lloyd  said.  "  One  day  the 
head  clerk  came  into  my  private  room  at  the  bank,  looking 
perplexed  and  discomfited.  '  Please,  sir,'  he  said,  '  a  lady 
wishes  to  see  you.'  'A  lady,'  I  answered.  '  Ladies  have  no 
business  here.  What  does  she  want  ?'  '  She  would  not  say 
BIT,  and  she  would  not  send  in  her  name.  She  said  it  did 
not  matter.'  I  began  to  wonder  what  I  had  been  doing. 


14  IDEALA. 

'What  is  she  like?'  I  asked.  He  looked  all  around  as  i* 
in  search  of  a  simile,  and  then  he  answered  :  '  Well,  sir. 
she's  more  like  a  picture  than  anything.'  '  Show  her  in,'  I 
said." 

Here  the  story  was  interrupted  by  a  shout  of  laughter. 
He  laughed  a  little  himself. 

"  I  should  have  been  polite,  in  any  case,"  he  declared, 
apologetically.  "  The  clerk  ushered  in  a  lady  whose  extreme 
embarrassment  made  me  sorry  for  her.  She  changed  color 
half  a  dozen  times  in  as  many  seconds,  and  then  she  hurled 
her  errand  at  my  head  in  these  words,  without  any  previ- 
ous preparation  to  break  the  blow  :  '  Mr.  Lloyd,  can  you 
lend  me  five  shillings?'  and  before  I  had  recovered,  she 
continued  :  '  I  came  in  by  train  this  morning,  and  I've  lost 
my  purse,  and  can't  get  back  if  you  won't  help  me— at 
least  I  think  I've  lost  my  purse.  I  took  it  out  to  give  six- 
pence to  a  beggar— and— and  here  is  the  sixpence  !'  and 
she  held  it  out  to  me.  She  had  given  her  purse  to  the  beg- 
gar and  carried  the  sixpence  off  in  triumph.  You  may  well 
say,  '  Oh,  Ideala !'  " 

"And  Mr.  Lloyd  was  so  very  good  as  to  take  me  to  the 
station,  and  see  me  into  the  train,"  Ideala  murmured;  "and 
he  gave  me  his  bankbook  to  amuse  me  on  the  journey,  and 
carried  Huxley's  '  Elementary  Physiology,'  which  I  had 
come  in  to  buy,  off  in  triumph." 

But  with  all  her  self-forgetfulness  there  wers>  moments 
in  which  she  showed  that  she  must  have  thought  deeply 
about  herself,  weighing  her  own  individuality  against 
others,  to  see  what  place  she  occupied  in  her  own  age,  and 
how  she  stood  with  regard  to  tha  ages  that  had  gone  be- 
fore ;  yet  even  this  she  seemed  to  have  done  in  a  selfless 
way, having  apparently  examined  herself  coolly,  critically, 
lairly,  as  she  might  have  examined  any  other  specimen  of 
humanity  in  which  she  felt  an  interest,  unbiased  by  any 
;;>.l  regard. 

"People  always  want  to  know  if  I  write,  or  paint,  or 
play,  or  what  I  do,"  she  once  said  to  me.  "  They  all  ex- 


IDEALA.  15 

pect  me  to  do  something.  My  function  is  not  to  do,  but  to 
bo.  I  make  no  poetry.  I  am  a  poem — if  you  read  me 
aright." 

And, again,  in  a  moment  of  despondency,  she  said  : 

"  I  am  one  of  the  weary  women  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. No  other  age  could  have  produced  me." 

\Vhen  fehe  said  she  did  nothing  she  must  have  meant  she 
was  not  great  in  anything,  for  her  time  was  all  occupied, 
and  those  tilings  in  which  she  was  interested  were  never  so 
well  done  without  her  help.  If  any  crying  abuse  were 
brought  to  light  in  the  old  Cathedral  City  ;  if  any  large 
measure  of  reform  were  set  on  foot ;  if  the  local  papers 
suddenly  became  eloquent  in  favor  of  some  good  move- 
ment, and  adroit  in  their  powers  of  persuasion;  if  burdens 
had  to  be  lifted  from  the  oppressed,  and  the  weak  defended 
against  great  odds,  you  might  be  sure  that  Ideala  was  busy, 
and  her  work  could  be  detected  in  it  all.  And  she  was 
especially  active  when  eff  arts  were  being  made  to  find 
amusement  for  the  people. 

"  That  is  what  they  want,  poor  things,"  she  would  say. 
"  Their  lives  are  such  a  dreary  round  of  dull,  monotonous 
toil,  and  they  have  so  little  sun  to  cheer  them.  They 
ought  to  be  taught  to  laugh,  and  have  the  brightness  put 
into  themselves,  and  then  it  would  seem  as  if  they  had 
been  relieved  of  half  the  atmospheric  pressure  beneath 
which  they  groan.  Think  what  your  own  life  would  be  if 
day  after  day  brought  you  nothing  but  toil ;  if  you  had 
nothing  to  look  back  upon,  nothing  to  look  forward  to, 
but  the  labor  that  makes  a  machine  of  you,  deadening  the 
power  to  care,  and  holding  mind  and  body  in  the  galling 
bondage  and  weariness  of  everlasting  routine." 

She  thought  laughter  an  unfailing  specific  for  most  of 
the  ills  of  life. 

"  We  can  none  of  us  be  thankful  enough  for  the  sensa- 
tion,", she  said.  "  Nothing  relieves  the  mentaj^ppression, 
which  does  such  moral  and  physical  harmTlike  mirth  ;  of 
course,  I  mean  legitimate  laughter,  not  levity,  nor  the  ill- 


16  IDEALA. 

natured  rejoicing  of  small  minds  in  such  subjects  foi 
sorrow  as  their  neighbors'  faults,  follies,  and  mistakes. 
What  I  am  thinking  of  is  the  pleasure  without  excitement 
which  there  is  in  sympathetic  intercourse  with  those  large, 
loving  natures  that  elevate,  and  the  laughter  without 
bitterness  which  is  always  a  part  of  it." 

Like  most  people  whose  goodness  is  neither  affected  nor 
acquired,  but  natural  to  them,  Ideala  saw  no  merit  in  her 
own  works,  and  would  not  take  the  credit  she  deserved  for 
them  ;  nor  would  she  have  had  her  good  deeds  known  at 
all  if  she  could  have  helped  it.  But  knowledge  of  these 
things  leaks  out  somehow,  although  probably  not  a  third 
of  what  she  did  will  ever  be  even  suspected. 


CHAPTER  II. 

SPEAKING  to  me  of  women  one  day,  she  said  : 
"  Certainly,  they  are  vainqtietirs  dts  vainqueitrs  de  la 
terre  in  any  sense  they  choose  ;  but  the  pity  of  it  is  that 
they  do  not  choose  to  exercise  their  power  for  good  to  any 
great  extent.  I  agree  with  Madame  Bernier — if  it  were 
Madame  Bernier— who  said :  '  L'ignorance  ou  les  femmes 
sont  de  leurs  devoirs,  Tabus  qu'elles  font  de  leur  puissance, 
leur  font  pedre  le  plus  beau  et  le  plus  pr  ecieux  de  leurs 
avantages,  celui  d'etre  utiles.'  But  hundreds  of  other 
quotations  will  occur  to  you,  written  by  thoughtful  men 
and  women  in  all  ages,  and  all  to  the  same  effect ;  it  is 
impossible  to  overestimate  their  restraining  aud  refining 
influence  as  the  companions  and  mothers  of  men— and 
almost  equally  impossible  to  make  them  realize  their  re- 
sponsibility or  care  to  use  their  strength.  I  would  have 
every  woman  feel  herself  a  power  for  good  in  the  .land— 
and  if  only  half  of  them  did,  what  a  world  of  difference  it 
would  make  to  everybody's  health  and  happiness  I  But 
women  should,  as  a  rule,  be  silent  powers.  There  are,  of 
course,  occasions  when  they  must  speak — and  all  honor  to 
those  who  do  so  when  the  need  arises— but  our  influence  is 


IDEALA.  17 

most  felt  when  it  is  quietly  persistent  and  unobtrusive. 
There  is  no  social  reform  that  we  might  not  accomplish  if 
we  agreed  among  ourselves  to  do  it,  and  then  worked  each 
of  us  using  her  influence  to  that  end  in  her  own  family, 
tmd  among  her  own  friends,  only.  I  once  induced  some 
ladies  to  try  a  littie  experiment  to  prove  this.  At  that  time 
the  gentlemen  of  our  respective  families  were  all  wearing 
a  certain  kiud  of  neck-tie.  We  agreed  to  banish  the  neck- 
tie, and  in  a  month  it  had  disappeared,  and  not  one  of  those 
gentlemen  was  ever  able  to  tell  us  why  he  ha4  given  it  up. 
We  don't  deserve  much  credit  for  our  ingenuity,  though," 
she  added,  lightly.  "  Men  are  so  easily  managed.  All  you 
have  to  do  is  to  feed  them  and  flatter  them." 

"  I  think  that  hardly  fair,"  I  commented. 

"  What  ?    The  feeding  and  flattering  ?  " 

"  No,  the  conspiracy." 

"Well,  that  occurred  to  me,  too— afterward,  when  it 
•was  too  late  to  do  anything  but  repent.  At  the  time,  I 
own,  I  thought  of  nothing  but  the  success  of  the  experi- 
ment as-an  example  and  proof  of  our  will-power." 

"You  considered  one  side  of  the  subject  only,  as  per 
usual,  when  you  are  eager  and  interested,"  I  softly  insinu- 
ated. 

She  frowned  at  me  thoughtfully  ;  then,  after  a  pause, 
she  resumed : 

"  Ah,  yes !  You  may  be  sure  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
good  motive-power  in  women,  but  most  of  it  is  lost  for 
want  of  knowledge  and  means  to  apply  it.  It  works  like 
the  sails  of  a  wind-mill  not  attached  to  the  machinery, 
which  whirl  round  arid  round  with  incredible  velocity  and 
every  evidence  of  strength,  but  serve  no  better  purpose 
than  to  show  which  way  the  wind  blows." 

This  question  of  the  position  of  women  in  our  own*  day 
occupied  her  a  good  deal. 

"  The  women  of  my  time,"  she  said  to  me  once,  "  are  in 
an  unsettled  state,  it  may  be  a  state  of  transition.  Much 
that  made  life  worth  having  has  lost  its  charm  for  them. 


18  IDE  ALA. 

The  old  interests  pall  upon  them.  Occupations  that  used 
to  be  the  great  business  of  their  lives  are  now  thought 
trivial,  and  are  left  to  children  and  to  servants.  Princi- 
ples accepted  since  the  beginning  of  time  have  been  called 
in  question.  Weariness  and  distrust  have  taken  the  place 
of  peace  and  content,  and  doubt  and  dissatisfaction  are 
the  order  of  the  day.  Women  want  something  ;  they  are 
determined  to  have  it,  too  ;  and  doubtless  they  would  get 
it  if  only  they  knew  what  it  is  that  they  want.  They  are 
struggling  to  arrive  at  something,  but  opinions  differ 
widely  as  to  what  that  something  ought  to  be  ;  and  the  re- 
sult is  that  they  have  divided  themselves  into  three  classes, 
not  exactly  distinct ;  they  dovetail  into  one  another  so 
nicoly  that  it  is  hard  to  say  where  the  influence  of  the  one 
set  ends  and  the  other  begins.  There  are,  first  of  all,  the 
women  who  in  their  struggles  for  political  power  have 
done  so  much  to  unsex  us.  They  have  tried  to  force  them- 
selves into  unnatural  positions,  and  the  consequence  has 
been  about  as  pleasing  and  edifying  as  an  attempt  to  make 
a  goose  sing.  They  clamor  for  change,  mistaking  change 
for  progress.  But  don't  let  the  puzzling  dovetail  confuse 
you.  The  people  I  speak  of  are  not  those  who  have  so 
nobly  devoted  themselves  to  the  removal  of  the  wrongs  of 
women,  though  they  work  together.  But  the  object  of 
all  this  class  is  good.  They  wish  to  raise  us,  and  what 
they  want,  for  the  most  part,  is  a  little  more  common 
sense— aa  is  shown  in  their  system  of  education,  for  in- 
stance, which  cultivates  the  intellectual  at  the  expense  of 
the  physical. powers,  girls  being  crammed  as  boys  (to  their 
great  let  and  hindrance  also)  are  crammed,  just  when 
nature  wants  all  their  strength  to  assist  their  growth  ;  the 
result  of  which  becomes  periodically  apparent  when  a 
number  of  amiable  young  ladies  are  let  loose  on  society 
without  hair  or  teeth.  But  the  thing  they  clamor  for  most 
is  equality.  There  is  a  great  deal  to  be  said  in  favor  of 
placing  the  sexes  on  an  equal  footing,  and  if  social  conven- 
tions are  stronger  and  more  admirable  than  natural  in.~ 


IDEALA.  19 

stincts— and  doubtless  they  are— the  thing  should  be  done; 
but  the  innate  perversity  of  women  makes  it  difficult — for, 
I  know  this  :  that  whatever  the  position  of  a  true  woman, 
and  however  much  she  may  clamor  for  equality  with  men 
in  general,  the  man  she  herself  loves  in  particular  will 
always  be  her  master. 

"  But  such  ridicule  as  this  party  has  brought  upon  itself 
would  not  have  mattered  so  much  had  nothing  worse  come 
of  it.  Unfortunately,  there  seems  to  be  no  neutral  ground 
for  us  women  :  we  either  do  good  or  harm;  and  I  hold  that 
first  class  responsible  for  the  existence  of  those  people  who 
clamor  for  change  of  any  kind,  regardless  of  tfie  conse- 
quences. Their  ideas,  shorn  of  all  good  intention,  have 
resulted  in  the  production  of  a  new  creature,  and  have 
made  it  possible  for  women  who  have  the  faults  of  both 
sexes  and  the  virtues  of  neither  to  mix  in  society.  The 
bad  work  done  by  the  influence  of  this  second  class  is  only 
too  apparent.  It  is  to  them  we  owe  the  fact  that  there  is 
less  refinement,  less  courtesy,  less  of  the  really  good  breed- 
ing which  shows  itself  in  kindness  and  consideration  for 
others,  and,  Heaven  help  us  !  even  less  modesty  among  us 
now  than  there  was  some  years  ago. 

"These  are  the  women,  too,  who  spend  their  time  and 
talents  on  the  production  of  cleverly  written  books  of  the 
most  corrupt  tendency.  Their  works  are  a  special  feature 
of  the  age,  and  are  doubly  dangerous  because  tney  have 
the  art  of  making  the  worst  ideas  attractive,  by  presenting 
them  in  forms  too  refined  and  beautiful  to  shock  even  the 
most  delicate. 

"  Besides  these  two  classes,  there  is  the  third,  which  is 
more  difficult  to  define.  It  is  the  one  on  which  our  hope 
rests.  The  women  who  belong  to  it  are  dissatisfied  like 
the  others,  but  they  are  less  decided,  and  therefore  their 
dissatisfaction  takes  no  positive  shape.  They  also  want 
something,  and  go  this  way  and  that  as  if  in  search  of  it, 
but  they  are  not  really  trying  for  anything  in  particular. 
They  do  good  and  evil  indiscriminately,  and  for  the 


20  1DEALA. 

motive  :  they  find  distraction  in  doing  something— any- 
thing. But  the  desire  to  do  good  is  latent  in  all  of  them  : 
show  them  the  way,  and  it  will  make  itself  apparent." 

"But  what  is  the  reason  of  all  this  dissatisfaction?"  I 
asked.  "  Why  don't  you  go  to  your  husbands  and  brothers 
to  be  set  right,  as  of  old  ?" 

".Ah  !  when  you  ask  me  that,  you  get  to  the  first  cause 
of  the  trouble,"  she  answered.  "The  truth  is,  that  w,e 
have  lost  faith  in  our  men.  They  claim  some  superiority 
for  themselves,  but  we  find  none.  The  age  requires  people 
to  practice  what  they  preach,  and  yet  expects  us  to  be 
guided  by  the  counsels  of  those  whose  own  lives,  we  know, 
have  rendered  them  contemptible.  They  are  not  fit  to 
guide  us,  and  we  are  not  fit  to  go  alone.  I  suppose  we 
shall  come  to  an  understanding  eventually— either  they 
must  be  raised  or  we  must  be  lowered.  It  is  for  the  death 
of  manliness  we  women  mourn.  We  marry,  and  find  we 
have  taken  upon  ourselves  misery,  and  life-long  widoxvhood 
of  the  mind  and  moral  nature.  Do  you  wonder  that  some 
of  us  ask  :  Why  should  we  keep  ourselves  pure  if  impurity 
is  to  be  our  bed-fellow  ?  You  make  us  breathe  corruption, 
and  wonder  that  we  lose  our  health." 

"But  why  do  you  talk  of. the  death  of  manliness? 
Men  have  as  much  courage  now  as  they  ever  had." 

"  Oh,  of  course— mere  animal  courage;  there  is  plenty 
of  that,  but  that  is  nothing.  A  cat  will  fight  for  her  kit- 
tens. It  is  moral  courage  that  makes  a  man,  and  where 
do  you  find  it  now?  Are  men  self-denying?  Are  they 
scrupulous  to  a  shadow  of  the  truth?  Are  they  disinter- 
ested? How  many  gentlemen  have  you  met  in  the  course 
of  your  life  ?  I  know  about  half  a  dozen." 

"What  do  you  call  a  gentlemen,  then?"  I  asked,  in 
surprise.  "  What  make's  a  man  one  ?" 

"Why,  truth  n,  of  course,"  she  answered; 

"the  one  is  the  nioac  ennobling  and  the  other  the  most 
refining  quality.  As  a  child  I  used  to  think  ladies  and 
gentlemen  never  told  stories ;  it  was  only  the  common 


IDEALA.  31 

people  who  were  dishonorable,  and  that  was  what  made 
them  common.  Helas  !  one  lives  and  learns." 

"  I  don't  think  the  world  is  worse  than  it  ever  was,"  I 
said  dryly. 

"Not  worse,  when  we  know  so  much  better,"  she  an- 
swered, with  scorn.  "Not  worse,  when  we  have  learned 
to  see  so  clearly,  and  most  of  us  acknowledge  that 

It  is  our  will 
Which  thus  enchains  us  to  permitted  ill ! 

It  is  nearly  two  thousand  years  since  Christianity  began 
its  work,  and  it  is  still  unaccomplished.  Do  you  kuow,  I 
sometimes  think  that  all  this  talk  of  virtue,  and  teaching 
of  religion,  is  a  kind  of  practical  joke,  gravely  kept  up  to 
find  a  church  parade  of  respectability  for  states,  a  profes- 
sion for  hundreds,  and  a  means  of  influencing  men  by 
making  a  tender  point  in  their  nervous  system  to  be 
touched,  as  with  a  rod,  when  necessary— a  rod  that  is  held 
over  them  always  in  terrorem.  We  all  talk  about  morality; 
but  try  sorae  measure  of  reform,  and  you  will  find  that 
every  man  sees  the  necessity  of  it  for  his  neighbor  only. 
Goodness  is  happiness,  and  sin  is  disease.  The  truism  is  as 
old  as  the  hills,  and  as  evident;  but  if  men  were  in  earnest 
do  you  suppose  they  would  go  on  forever  choosing  sin  and 
its  ghastly  companion  as  they  do?  Do  you  know,  there 
are  moments  when  I  think  that  even  their  reverence  for 
the  parity  of  women  is  a  sham.  For  why  do  they  keep  us 
pure?  ~ Is  it  not  to  make  each  morsel  more  delicious  for 
themselves,  that  sense  and  sentiment  may  be  satisfied 
together,  and  their  own  pleasure  made  more  complete  ? 
Individuals  may  be  in  earnest,  but  the  great  bulk  cf  man- 
kind is  a  hypocrite.  When  the  history  of  this  age  is  written* 
moral  cowardice  and  self-indulgence  will  be  found  to  have 
been  the  most  striking  characteristics  of  the  people.  There 
is  no  truth  to  be  found  in  the  inward  parts." 

But  Ideala  did  not  often  adopt  this  tone,  and  she  would 
herself  check  other  people  who  were  preparing  to  assume 


22  IDEALA. 

it.    She  had  a  favorite  quotation,  adroitly  mangled,  to  suit 
such  occasions. 

"  When  we  begin  to  inculcate  morality  as  a  science,  va 
must,  discard  moralizing  as  a  method,"  she  declared;  and 
she  would  also  beg  us  to  stop  the  hysteria.  "It  is  the 
mortal  malady  of  all  well-beloved  measures,"  she  said;  "and 
it  spreads  to  an  epidemic  if  the  affected  ones  are  not  sup- 
pressed at  once  to  prevent  contagion." 

But,  although  she  spoke  so  positively  when  taken  out  of 
herself  by  the  interest  and  importance  of  a  subject,  she 
had  no  very  high  opinion  of  her  own  judgment  and  power 
to  decide.  A  little  more  self-esteam  would  have  been 
good  for  her  ;  she  was  too  diffident. 

"  I  have  not  come  across  people  on  whose  know  ledge  I 
could  rely,"  she  told  me.  "  I  have  been  obliged  to  study 
alone,  and  to  form  my  opinions  for  myself  out  of  such 
scraps  of  information  as  I  have  had  the  capacity  to  acquire 
from  reading  and  observation.  I  am,  therefore,  always 
prepared  to  find  myself  mistaken,  even  when  I  am  surest 
about  a  thing— for 

What  am  I? 

An  infant  crying  in  the  night : 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light : 
And  with  no  language  but  a  cry  !" 

In  practice,  too,  she  frequently,  albeit  unconsciously, 
diverged  from  her  theories  to  some  considerable  extent ;  as 
on  one  occasion,  when,  after  talking  long  and  earnestly  of 
the  sin  of  selfishness,  she  absently  picked  up  a  paper  I  had 
just  cut  with  intent  to  enjoy  myself,  took  it  away  with  her 
to  the  drawing-room,  and  sat  on  it  for  the  rest  of  the 
morning — as  I  afterward  heard. 


CHAPTER  III. 

IDEALA  held  that  dignity  and  calm  are  essential  in  a 
woman,  but,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  she  found  it  hard  to 
attain  to  her  own  standard  of  cxi-f  Hence.  Her  bursrs  of 
ere  followed  by  fits  of  depression,  and  these 


IDEAL  A.  23 

again  by  pcriccl?of  indifference,  when  it  was  hard  to  rousa 
her  to  interest  in  anything.  She  always  said,  and  was 
probably  right,  that  want  of  proper  discipline  in  childhood, 
was  the  reason  of  this  variableness,  which  sh'3  drplorod, 
but  could  neither  comhat  nor  conceal.  Temperament  must 
also  have  had  something  to  do  with  it.  Her  nervous  sys- 
tem was  too  highly  strung  ;  she  was  too  sensitive,  too 
emotional,  too  intense.  She  reflected  phases  of  feeling 
with  which  she  was  brought  into  contact  as  a  lake  reflects 
the  sky  above  it,  and  the  bird  that  skims  across  it.  arid  the 
boats  that  rest  upon  its  breast ;  yet,  like  the  lake's,  h.pr 
own  nature  remained  unchangpd  ;  it  might  be  darkened 
by  shadows,  and  lashed  by  tempests  till  it  r^iged,  but  the 
pure  element  showed  divinely,  even  in  its  wrath,  and  the 
passion  of  it  was  expended  always  to  some  good  end. 

But  even  her  love  of  the  beautiful  was  earned  to  excess. 
It  was  a  passion  with  her  which  would,  in  a  sturdier  age, 
have  been  considered  a  vice.  She  delighted  in  the  scent  of 
flowers,  the  song  of  the  thrushes  m  the  spring,  color,  and 
beautiful  forms.  Doubtless  the  emotion  they  caused  her 
was  pure  enough,  and  it  was  natural  that,  highly  bred, 
cultivated,  and  refined  as  she  was,  she  should  feel  these 
delicate,  sensuous  pleasures  in  a  greater  degree  than  lower 
natures  do.  There  was  danger,  however,  in  the  overeduca- 
tion  of  the  senses,  which  made  their  ready  response  inevi- 
table, but  neither  limited  the  subjects,  nor  regulated  the 
degree,  to  which  they  should  respond.  But  it  would  be  hard 
in  any  case  to  say  where  cultivation  of  love  for  the  beauti- 
ful should  end,  and  to  determine  the  exact  point  at  which 
the  result  ceases  to  be  intellectual  and  begins  to  be  sensual. 

I  have  sat  and  watched  Ideala  lolling  at  an  open  window- 
in  the  summer.  The  house  stood  on  a  hill,  a  rivpr  wound 
through  the  valley  below,  and  beyond  the  river  the  <imd 
sloped  up  again,  green  and  dotted  with  trees,  to  a  range  of 
low  hills,  crested  with  a  fringe  of  wood. 

••  Do  you  know  what  there  is  beyond  those  hills?"  Ideala 
HB&ed  me  once,  abruptly.  "  J  don't  know  ;  but  I  love  to 


24  IDEALA. 

believe  that  the  sea  is  there,  and  that  the  sun  is  sinking 
into  it  now.    Sometimes  I  fancy  I  can  hear  it  murmur." 

And  then  followed  a  long  silence.  And  the  scent  of 
mignonette  and  roses  blew  in  upon  her,  and  the  twilight 
deepened,  and  I  saw  her  grow  pale  with  pleasure  when  the 
nightingale  began  to  sing — and  then  I  stole  away  and  never 
was  mis-ed. 

She  would  lie  in  a  long-chair  for  hours  like  that,  scarcely 
moving,  and  never  speaking.  At  first  I  used  to  wonder 
what  she  thought  about ;  but  afterward  I  knew  that  at 
such  times  she  did  not  think,  she  only  felt. 

I  have  some  pictures  of  her  as  she  was  then,  dressed  in 
a  gown  of  some  quaint  blue  and  white  Japanese  material, 
with  her  white  throat  bare — I  was  just  going  to  catalogue 
her  charms,  but  it  seems  indelicate  to  describe  a  woman, 
point  by  point,  like  a  horse  that  is  for  sale.  I  have  some 
other  pictures  of  her,  too,  as  she  appeared  to  me  one  hot 
summer  when  I  was  painting  a  picture  by  the  river,  and 
she  used  to  come  down  the  towing  path  to  watch  me  work, 
and  sit  beside  me  on  the  grass  for  hours  together,  talking, 
reading  aloud,  reciting,  or  silent,  according  to  her  mood, 
but  always  interesting.  It  was  then  I  learned  to  know  her 
best.  And  I  am  always  glad  to  think  of  her  as  I  used  to 
see  her  then,  coming  toward  me  in  one  particular  gray 
frock  she  wore,  tight  fitting  and  perfect,  yet  with  no  detail 
evident.  It  was  like  an  expression  of  herself,  that  dress, 
so  quiet  to  ail  seeming,  and  yet  so  rich  in  material,  and  so 
complex  in  design.  The  wonder  ami  the  beauty  of  it 
grew  upon  you,  and  never  failed  of  its  eil'oct. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

WHEN  I  first  knew  Ideala  her  religious  opinions  were  all 
unsettled 

"  I  neither  believe  nor  disbelieve,"  she  told  me  ;  "  I  am 

in  a  state  of  don't  know  ;  or  perhaps  it  would  be  more  ex- 

i  act  to  say  that  I  both  doubt  and  believe  at  one  and  the 


IDE  ALA.  25 

eame  time.  T  go  indifferently  to  either  church,  Protestant 
or  Catholic,  and  am  thankful  when  any  note  of  music,  or 
thrill  of  feeling  in  the  voice,  or  noble  sentiment,  elevates 
me  so  that  I  can  pray.  But  I  am  told  that  both  Catholics 
and  Protestants  consider  me  a  weak  waverer,  and  call  me 
incorrigible.  Sometimes  I  can  not  pray  for  months  to- 
gether, and  when  I  do  it  is  generally  to  ask  for  something 
I  want,  not  to  praise  or  give  thanks.  But  what  a  blank 
it  is  when  one  can  not  pray  ;  when  one  has  lost  the  power 
to  conceive  that  there  is  a  something  greater  than  man,  to 
whom  man  is  nevertheless  all  in  all,  and  to  whom  we  may 
look  for  comfort  in  all  times  of  our  tribulation,  and  for 
sympathy  in  all  times  of  our  wealth  I  To  be  able  to  give 
thanks  to  God  when  one  is  happy  ia  the  most  rapturous, 
and  to  be  able  to  call  upon  Him  in  the  day  of  trouble  is  the 
most  blessed,  state  of  mind  I  know.  Yet  I  believe  we  should 
only  pray  for  the  possible.  The  leafless  tree  may  pray  for 
the  time  of  tyids  and  blossoms ;  will  the  time  come  the 
sooner  ?  Perhaps  not ,  but  it  will  come." 

"  I  must  confess,"  she  said,  on  another  occasion,  "  that  I 
do  have  moments  of  pure  skepticism  ;  but  when  I  can  not 
believe  in  the  existence  of  a  God  and  a  beyond,  I  feel  as  if 
/he  sky  were  nearer,  and  weighed  upon  me,  so  -that  I  could 
not  lift  my  head." 

She  thought  religion  consisted  much  more  in  doing  right 
than  in  believing  right,  and  set  morality  above  faith  ;  but 
I  think  she  had  a  leaning  toward  the  Eoman  Catholic  re- 
ligion nevertheless. 

"  It  is  a  grand  old  faith,"  she  said,  "  only  it  has  certain 
ramifications  with  which  I  should  always  quarrel,  notably 
that  of  the  Sacred  Heart  with  which  Catholics  deface  their 
lovely  Lady  in  the  churches.  I  always  feel  that  such  bad 
art  can  not  be  good  religion.  When  the  Roman  Catholic 
religion  commanded  respect  it  expressed  itself  better— as  in 
the  days  when  it  carved  itself  in  harmonies  of  solid  stone, 
and  wrote  itself  in  tint  and  tone  on  glowing  canvases,  and 
learned  to  speak  in  thundering  mass  and  mighty  hymns  of 


26  IDEALA. 

praise  I  There  are  people  who  think  these  new  shoots  pood 
as  a  sign  of  life  in  the  tree,  and  this  consideration  might 
perhaps  make  their  appearance  welcome  ;  but  a  great  deal 
of  strength  is  expended  on  their  production,  and  it  would 
be  just  as  well  to  lop  them  off  again.  The  old  tree  wants 
pruning  and  cutting  back  occasionally,  and  it  is  a  false 
sentiment  that  is  letting  it  fall  to  decay  for  the  sake  of 
these  struggling  branches. 

"  There  is  another  thing,  too,  for  which  we  should  all 
quarrel  with  the  Catholic  religion.  I  think  the  fact  has 
already  been  noticed  by  some  writer  ;  at  all  events  it  is 
•evident  enough  to  have  occurred  to  any  one.  I  mean  the 
fact  that  the  Church,  by  its  narrow  views  about  education, 
and  its  most  unspiritual  ambition  for  itself,  has  retarded 
the  world's  progress  for  centuries  by  interfering  with  the 
law  of  natural  selection.  As  a  matter  of  course,  for  ages 
all  the  best  men  went  into  the  Church  ;  it  was  the  only 
career  open  to  them  ;  and  so  they  left  no  descendants." 

At  our  house,  on  another  occasion,  when  the  Roman 
Catholic  religion  happened  to  be  under  discussion,  she 
launched  forth  some  observations  in  her  usual  emphatic  way. 
There  were  only  two  strangers  present,  a  lady  and  her  hus- 
band. Ideala  asked  the  lady,  who  was-sitting  next  to  her, 
if  she  were  a  Catholic,  to  which  the  lady  answered,  "  No  "  ; 
and  Ideala,  satisfied,  proceeded  to  remark  : 

"  It  may  be  the  true  religion,  but  it  certainly  is  not  the 
religion  of  truth.  The  doctrine  of  expediency,  or  the  lati- 
tude they  allow  themselves  on  the  score  of  expediency — I 
don't  quite  know  how  they  put  it— but  it  has  much  to 
answer  for.  I  never  find  that  my  Roman  Catholic  friends 
are  true,  as  my  Protestant  friends  are.  There  is  always  a 
something  kept  back,  a  reservation  ;  a  want  of  straightfor- 
wardness, even  when  there  is  no  positive  deception— I  can't 
describe  the  thing  I  mean,  but  it  is  quite  perceptible,  and 
causes  an  uneasy  feeling  of  distrust,  which  is  all  the  more 
tormenting  from  its  vagueness  and  want  of  definition.  The 
low-class  Roman  Catholics,  I  llnd,  never  hesitate  if  a  lie 


IDEALA.  27 

will  serve  their  purpose  ;  and  Roman  Catholic  servants  are 
notoriously  untrustworthy.  That,  of  course,  proves  nothing , 
for  one  knows  that  low-class  people  of  any  religion  are  not 
to  be  depended  on — still,  there  is  no  doubt  that  one  finds 
deception  more  rife  among  Catholics  than  among  Protest- 
ants, and  one  wonders  why,  if  the  religion  is  riot  to  blame.'- 

My  sister,  Claudia,  had  tried  to  catch  Ideala's  eye,  and 
stop  her,  but  in  vaia  ;  and  the  lady  next  her  broke  out  the 
moment  she  paused : 

' '  Indeed,  you  are  quite  wrong.  You  can  not  have  known 
many  Catholics.  They  are  not  untrue." 

'•  Oh,  yes,  I  have  kno«vn  numbers,"  Ideala  answered  ;  "  I 
speak  from  experience.  Yet  it  always  seems  to  me  that  the 
Roman  Catholic  religion  is  good  for  individuals.  There  is 
pleasure  in  it.  and  help  and  comfort  for  them.  But  then  it 
is  death  to  the  progress  of  nations,  and  the  question  is  . 
Would  an  individual  be  justified  in  adding  a  unit  more  for 
his  own  benefit  to  a  system  which  would  ruin  his  country  ? 
I  think  not." 

Here,  however,  she  stopped,  seeing  at  last  that  something 
was  wrong. 

"What  dreadful  mistake  did  I  make  this  evening?"  she 
asked  me.  afterward.  "  Mrs.  Jervois  declared  she  wasn't 
a  Catholic ." 

"  But  her  husband  is,"  I  answered  ;  "  and  he  heard  every 
word." 

Ideala  groaned. 

Not  long  afterwaru  T»Irs.  Jervois  wrote  and  told  us  she 
had  entered  the  Catholic  Church. 

"  I  had,  in  fact,  been  received  before  I  went  to  you," 
she  confessed. 

"  Thera  ! "  Ideala  exclaimed.  "  It  is  just  what  I  said.  A 
want  of  common  honesty  is  a  part  of  the  religion  ;  and  you 
see  she  had  begun  to  practice  it  while  she  was  here." 

"  What  an  eternal  lie  it  is  they  preach  when  they  tell  us 
life  is  not  worth  having,"  she  said  to  me  once,  speaking  of 
preachers  generally.  ' '  I  have  heard  an  oleosaccharine  priest 


•28  IDEALA 

preach  for  an  hour  on  this  subject,  detailing  the  worthless- 
ness  of  all  earthly  pleasures,  with  which  he  seemed  to  be 
intimately  acquainted— his  appearance  making  one  suspect 
that  he  had  not  even  yet  exhausted  them  all  himself —and 
giving  a  florid  account  of  the  glories  of  the  life  to  come, 
about  which  he  appeared  to  know  as  much  but  to  care  less; 
just  as  if  heaven  might  not  begin  on  earth  if  only  men 
would  let  it." 

One  day  I  had  to  warn  her  about  acting  so  often  on  im- 
pulse. She  heard  what  I  had  to  say  very  good-naturedly, 
and  after  thinking  about  it  for  a  while,  she  said : 

"  "What  a  pity  it  is  one  never  sees  an  impulse  coming. 
It  is  impossible  to  know  whether  they  arise  from  below,  or 
descend  from  above.  I  always  find  if  I  act  on  one  that  it 
has  arisen  ;  and  as  surely  if  I  leave  it  alone  it  proves  to 
have  been  a  good  opportunity  lost.  And  how  curiously 
our  thoughts  go  on,  often  so  irrespective  of  ourselves.  I 
was  in  a  Roman  Catholic  church  the  other  day,  and  the 
priest — a  friend  of  mine,  who  looks  like  the  last  of  the 
Mohicans  minus  the  feathers  in  his  hair  ;  but  a  good  man, 
with  nice,  soft,  velvety  brown  eyes— preached  most  im- 
prrssively.  He  told  us  that  the  Lord  was  there — there  on 
that  very  altar,  ready  to  answer  our  prayers ;  and,  oh, 
dear  !  when  I  came  to  think  of  it,  there  were  so  many  of 
my  prayers  waiting  to  be  answered  !  I '  felt  like '  present- 
ing the  n  all  over  again,  it  seemed  such  a  good  opportunity. 
And  then  they  sung  the  '  O  salutaris  Hostia'  divinely— so 
divinely  that  I  thought  if  the  Lord  really  had  been  there  He 
would  certainly  have  made  them  sing  it  again—  and  I  could 
not  pray  any  more  after  that.  You  call  this  rank  irrever- 
ence, do  you  not  ?  J  do.  And  I  wish  I  had  not  thought  it. 
Yet  it  was  one  of  those  involuntary  tricks  of  the  mind  for 
•which  I  can  not  believe  that  we  are  to  be  held  responsible. 
The61ogians  would  say  it  was  a  temptation  of  the  devil, 
but  they  are  wrong.  The  first  cause  of  these  mental  lapses 
is  to  be  found  in  some  habit  of  levity,  acquired  young,  and 
not  easily  got  rid  of,  but  still  not  hopeless.  But  prevention 


IDEALA  2* 

is  better  than  cure,  and  children  should  be  taught  right- 
mindedness  early.  I  wish  I  had  been.  Happy  is  the  child 
who  is  started  hi  life  with  a  set  of  fixed  principles,  and 
the  power  to  respect." 

I  used  to  wish  that  there  might  be  universal  religion,  but 
Ideala  did  not  share  my  feeling  on  this  subject. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  a  fine  idea,"  rhe  said  ;  "  but  while  minds 
run  in  so  many  different  grooves,  it  seems  to  me  far  finer 
for  one  system  of  morality  to  have  found  expressions  enough 
to  satisfy  nearly  everybody." 

She  had  very  decided  views  about  what  heaven  ought  to 
be. 

"The  mere  material  notion  of  abundance  of  gold  and 
precious  stones,  which  appealed  to  the  early  churchmen, 
has  no  charm  for  us,"  she  declared.  "  We  must  have  new 
powers  of  perception,  and  new  pleasures  provided  for  us, 
such,  for  instance,  as  Mr.  Andrew  Lang  suggests  in  an 
exquisite  little  poem  about  the  Homeric  Phsecia— the  land 
whose  inhabitants  were  friends  of  the  gods,  a  sort  of  heaven 
upon  earth." 

And  then  she  quoted  : 

The  languid  sunset,  mother  of  roses, 

Lingers,  a  light  on  the  magic  seas  ; 
The  wide  fire  flames  as  a  flower  uncloses  ; 

Heavy  with  odor  and  loose  to  the  breeze. 

#  »•-..'#  * 

The  strange  flowers'  perfume  turns  to  singing, 

Heard  afar  over  moonlit  seas  ; 
The  siren's  song,  grown  faint  with  winging, 

Falls  in  scent  on  the  cedar-trees. 

"Those  lines  were  the  first  to  make  me  grasp  the  possi- 
bility of  having  new  faculties  added  to  our  old  ones  in  an- 
other state  of  existence,"  she  said,  "  faculties  which  should 
give  us  a  deeper  insight  into  the  nature  of  things,  and  en- 
able us  to  discover  new  pleasures  in  the  unity  which  may 
be  expected  to  underlie  beauty  and  excellence  in  all  their 
manifestations,  as  Mr.  Norman  Pearson  puts  it.  Did  you 
ever  read  that  paper  of  his,  *  After  Death,'  in  the  '  Nine- 


80  IDEALA. 

teenth  Century '  ?  I-t  embodies  what  I  had  long  felt,  but 
could  never  grasp  before  I  found  his  admirable  expression 
of  it.  '  I  can  see  no  reason,'  he  says,  in  one  passage  in 
particular,  which  I  remember  word  for  word,  I  think  ;  it 
gives  me  such  pleasure  to  recall  it—'  I  can  see  no  reason 
for  supposing  that  some  such  insight  would  be  impossible 
to  the  quickened  faculties  of  a  higher  development.  With 
a  nature  material"  so  far  as  the  existence  of  those  faculties 
might  require,  but  spiritual  to  the  highest  degree  in  their 
exercise  and  enjoyment ;  under  physical  conditions  which 
might  render  us  practically  independent  of  space,  and 
actually  free  from  the  host  of  physical  evils  to  which  we 
are  now  exposed,  we  might  well  attain  a  consummation  of 
happiness,  generally  akin  to  that  for  which  we  now  strive, 
but  idealized  into  something  like  perfection.  The  faculties 
which  would  enable  us  to  obtain  a  deeper  and  truer  view 
of  all  the  manifestations  of  cosmic  energy  would  at  the 
same  time  reveal  to  us  new  forms  of  beauty,  new  possi- 
bilities of  pleasure  on  every  side  ;  and— to  take  a  single  in- 
stance—the emotions  to  which  the  sight  of  Niagara  now 
appeals  might  then  be  gratified  by  a  contemplation  of  the 
fierce  grandeur  of  some  sun's  chromosphere  or  the  calmer 
glories  of  its  corona.'  That  satisfies ,  does  it  not  ?"  she  addedr 
with  a  sigh.  "  It  suggests  such  infinite  possibilities." 


One  day,  when  she  was  making  herself  miserable  for 
want  of  a  religion,  I  tried  to  comfort  her  by  talking  of  the 
different  people  whose  lives  had  been  good,  and  pure,  and 
ncble,  although  they  had  had  no  faith. 

"I  suppose  my  principles  are  right,"  she  said;  "but  if 
they  are,  they  have  come  right  by  accident.  The  children 
of  the  people  are  sent  to  Sunday-schools,  and  taught  the 
difference  between  right  and  wrong  ;  we  seem  to  be  expect- 
ed to  know  it  instinctively.  I  think  if  I  had  learned  I 
might  have  profited,  because  I  cling  so  fondly  to  the  one 
principle  I  ever  heard  clearly  enunciated.  It  was  on  the 


IDEA  LA.  31 

sin  of  shooting  foxes  ;  and  I  can  not  tell  you  the  horror  I 
have  of  the  crime,  even  down  to  the  present  day.  But, 
now  I  think  of  it,  I  did  receive  two  other  scraps  of  religious 
training.  My  governess  taught  me  the  Ten  Command- 
ments by  making  me  say  them  after  her  when  I  was  eat- 
ing bread  and  sugar  for  breakfast,  before  going  to  church 
on  Sunday.  The  thouc  lit  of  them  always  brings  back  the 
flavor  of  bread  and  sugar.  And  the  other  scrap  I  got  from 
a  clergyman  to  whom  I  was  sent  on  a  single  occasion  when 
I  was  thought  old  enough  to  be  confirmed.  He  asked  me 
which  was  the  commandment  with  promise,  and  I  didn't 
know,  so  he  told  mo  ;  and  then  I  made  him  laugn  about  a 
horse  of  mine  that  used  to  have  great  fun  trying  to  break 
my  neck,  and  after  that  he  said  I  should  do.  I  did  not 
agree  with  him,  hov7,  ver,  and  I  positively  refused  to  be 
confirmed  until  I  knew  more  about  it.  My  mother  said  I 
was  the  most  disagreeable  child  she  had  ever  known,  which 
was  probably  true,  but  as  v n  argument  it  failed  to  con- 
vince. It  was  her  last  remark  on  the  subject,  happily,  and 
after  that  the  tiling  was  allowed  to  drop." 

Ideala  was  fourteen  when  she  refused  to  be  confirmed, 
for  conscientious  scruples,  and  although  she  made  light  of 
it  in  this  way,  she  had  suffered  a  good  deal  and  been  severe- 
ly punished  at  the  time  for  her  refusal,  but  vainly,  for  she 
never  gave  in. 

Li  after-life  she  held,  of  course,  that  Christianity  was  the 
highest  moral  revelacion  the  world  had  ever  known  ;  but 
when  she  saw  that  legal  right  was  not  always  moral  right, 
I  think  she  begau  to  look  for  a  higher. 

By  baptism  she  belonged  to  the  Church  of  England,  but 
she  seems  to  have  thought  of  the  sacrament  always  with 
the  idea  of  transubstantiation  in  her  mind.  She  spoke  of 
it  reverently,  but  had  never  been  able  to  take  it,  and  for  a 
curious  reason  :  she  said  the  idea  of  it  nauseated  her.  She 
felt  that  the  elements  were  unnatural  food,  and  therefore 
she  could  not  touch  them — ana  ibis  feeling  never  left  her 
bat  once,  when  she  was  dangerously  ill,  and  yearned,  as 


S2  IDEALA. 

she  told  me,  for  the  sacrament  more  than  for  life  and 
health.  Day  and  night  the  longing  never  left  her ;  but, 
not  having;  been  confirmed,  sh3  did  not  like  to  ask  for  it, 
and  as  she  recovered,  the  old  feeling  gradually  returned. 

Religious  difficulties  always  tormented  her  more  or  less. 
As  she  grew  older  she  felt,  with  Shelley,  that  belief  is  in- 
voluntary, and  a  man  is  neither  to  be  praised  nor  blamed 
for  it ;  and  she  was  always  ready  to  acknowledge  with  Sir 
Philip  Sidney  that  "  Reason  can  not  show  itself  more  rea- 
sonable than  to  leave  reasoning  on  things  above  reason"; 
but  nevertheless  her  mind  did  not  rest. 

I  have  also  heard  her  quote,  "  Credulity  is  the  man's 
weakness,  but  the  child's  strength,"  and  add  that  in  mat- 
ters of  faith  and  religion  we  are  all  children,  and  I  have 
thought  at  tines  that  she  had  been  able  to  leave  it  so  ;  but 
something  always  fell  from  her  sooner  or  later  which 
showed  that  the  old  trouble  was  rankling  still— as  when 
she  told  me  once  :  "  I  have  never  heard  the  Divine  voice 
which  his  called  you  and  all  my  friends.  I  listen  for  it, 
but  it  does  not  speak.  I  call,  but  there  is  no  reply.  1 
wait,  but  it  does  not  come.  The  heaven  of  heavens  is 
dark  to  me,  and  the  yearning  of  my  soul  meets  no  re- 
sponse. Will  it  be  so  forever  ?" 

No,  not  forever — but  she  was  led  by  tortuous  ways,  and 
left  to  work  out  her  own  salvation  in  very  fear  arid  trem- 
bling, till  the  dear  human  love  was  given  to  her  in  pity  to 
help  her  to  know  something  of  that  which  is  Divine.  And 
then,  I  hope,  above  the  trouble  6f  her  senses,  and  the  tur- 
moil of  the  world,  the  Divine  voice  did  call  her,  and  she 
was  able  at  last  to  hear. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IDEALA  often  recurred  to  the  subject  of  work  for  women. 

"  There  aie  so  inauy  thousands  of  us/'  she  said,  "  who 
have  no  object  in  life,  and  nothing  to  make  us  take  it  seri- 
ous. My  own  is  a  case  in  point.  I  am  not  necessary, 


IDEALA.  33 

even  to  my  husband.  There  is  nothing  I  am  bound  to  do 
for  him,  or  that  he  requires  of  me,  nothing  but  to  be 
agreeable  when  he  is  with  me,  which  would  not  interfere 
'with  a  serious  occupation  if  I  had  one,  and  is  scarcely 
interest  enough  in  life  for  an  energetic  woman.  My 
household  duties  take,  on  an  average,  half  an  hour  a  day  ; 
and  everything  in  our  house  is  done  regularly,  and  well 
done.  My  social  duties  maybe  got  through  at  odd  mo- 
ments, and  the  more  of  a  pastime  I  make  them  the  better 
I  fulfill  them  ;  and,  with  the  exception  of  these,  there  is 
nothing  in  my  life  that  I  can  not  have  done  for  me  by 
some  one  better  able  to  do  it  than  I  am.  And  even  if  I 
had  children  I  should  not  be  much  more  occupied,  for  the 
thin<rs  they  ought  to  learn  from  their  mothers  are  best 
taught  by  example.  For  all  practical  purposes,  parents, 
as  a  rule,  are  bad  masters  for  any  but  very  young  children. 
They  err  on  the  side  of  over-severity,  or  the  reverse.  So, 
you  see,  I  have  no  obligations  of  consequence,  and  there  is, 
therefore,  nothing  in  my  life  to  inspire  a  sense  of  respon- 
sibility. And  all  this  seems  to  me  a  grievous  waste  of  Me. 
I  remember  Lord  Wensum  telling  me,  when  we  discussed 
this  subject,  that  he  was  traveling  once  with  a  well-known 
editor,  and,  noticing  the  number  of  villas  that  had  sprung 
up  of  late  years  along  the  whole  line  of  rail  they  were  on, 
he  said :  '  I  wonder  what  the  ladies  in  those  villas  do  with 
their  time  ?  I  suppose  their  social  duties  are  limited,  and 
they  are  too  well  off  to  be  obliged  to  trouble  themselves 
about  anything.'  '  It  is  the  existence  of  those  villas,'  the 
editor  answered,  '  that  makes  the  present  profession  of  the 
novelist  possible.'  But  I  think,"  said  Ideala,  "  that  those 
women  might  find  something  better  to  do  than  to  make  a 
profession  for  novelists/' 

"  But  you  do  a  good  deal  yourself,  Ideala,"  I  ventured. 

"  Yes,  in  a  purposeless  way.  All  my  acts  are  isolated  ; 
it  would  make  little  difference  if  they  had  never  been 
done.'' 

"Then  you  are  not  content,  after  all,  to  be  merely  a 


84  IDEALA. 

poem?"  I  said,  maliciously.  "You  would  like  to  do  as 
well  as  to  be  ?" 

She  laughed.    Then,  after  a  little,  she  said  earnestly  : 

"  Do  you  know,  I  always  feel  as  if  I  could  do  something 
— teach  something— or  help  others  in  a  small  way  with 
some  work  of  importance.  I  never  believe  I  was  born  just 
to  live  and  die.  But  I  have  a  queer  feeling  about  it.  I  atn 
sure  I  shall  be  made  to  go  down  into  some  great  depth  of 
sin  and  misery  myself,  in  order  to  learn  what  it  is  I  have 
to  teach." 

She  loved  music,  and  painting,  and  poetry,  and  science, 
and  none  of  her  loves  were  barren.  She  embraced  them 
each  in  turn  with  an  ardor  that  resulted  in  the  production 
of  an  offspring— a  song,  a  picture,  a  poem,  or  book  on  some 
most  serious  subject,  and  all  worthy  of  note.  But  she  was 
inconstant,  and  these  children  of  her  thought  or  fancy  were 
generally  isolated  efforts  that  marked  the  culminating 
point  of  her  devotion,  and  lessened  her  interest  if  they  did 
not  exhaust  her  strength. 

Perhaps,  though,  I  wrong  her  when  I  call  her  inconstant. 
It  seems  to  me  now  that  each  new  interest  was  a  step  by 
which  she  mounted  upward,  learning  to  sympathize  prac- 
tically and  perfectly  with  all  men  in  their  work  as  she 
passed  them  on  her  way  to  find  her  own. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SHE  knew  the  poor  of  the  place  well,  and  took  a  lively 
Interest  in  all  that  concerned  them  ;  and  occasionally  she 
would  confide  some  of  her  own  odd  observations  and  reflec- 
tions to  me. 

"  On  Sunday  morning  all  the  women  wash  their  door- 
steps," she  told  me  ;"  I  think  it  is  part  of  their  religion." 

And  on  another  occasion  she  said  : 

"  They  have  such  lovely  children  here,  and  such  swarms 
of  them,  I  am  always  hard  on  the  women  with  lovely  chil- 
dren. People  say  it  is  envy,  hatred,  malice,  and  all  un- 


IDEALA.  35 

charitableness,  that  makes  me  so  :  but  it  really  is  because 
I  think  women  who  have  nice  children  should  be  better 
than  other  women.  It  would  be  worse  for  one  of  them  to 
do  a  wrong  thing  than  for  poor  childless  me." 

This  conclusion  may  be  quarreled  with  as  illogical,  but 
the  feeling  that  led  to  it  was  beautiful  beyond  question  ; 
and,  indeed,  all  her  ideas  on  that  subject  were  beautiful. 

She  went  once,  soon  after  she  came  among  us,  to  comfort 
a  ladv  in  the  neighborhood  who  had  lost  a  baby  at  its  birth. 

"  It  is  sad  that  you  should  lose  your  child,"  Ideala  said 
to  her ;  "  but  you  are  better  off  than  I  am,  for  I  never 
knew  what  it  was  to  be  a  mother." 

She  would  have  thought  it  a  privilege  to  have  experi- 
enced even  the  sorrows  of  maternity. 

Talking  about  the  people,  she  told  me  : 

"  They  draw  such  nice  distinction?.  They  speak  of  c  a 
lady' and 'a  real  lady.'  A 'real  lady'  is  a  person  who 
gives  no  trouble.  If  Mrs.  Vanbrugh  wants  anything  from 
the  butcher,  and  he  has  already  sent  to  her  house  once  that 
day,  she  does  not  expect  him  to  send  again  ;  she  sends  to 
him — and  she  is  '  a  real  lady.'  Mrs.  Stanton  is  also  thought- 
ful, but  she  is  something  more  ;  she  is  sociable  and  kind, 
and  talks  to  them  all  in  a  friendly  way,  just  as  if  they  were 
human  beings  ;  and  she  is  something  more  than  •  a  real 
lady '—she's  '  a  real  nice  lady.' 

"  Do  you  know  Mrs.  Polter,  at  the  fish-shop  ?  What  a 
fine- looking  woman  she  is  !  Middle-aged,  intelligent,  and 
a  very  good  specimen  of  her  class,  I  should  think.  She 
has  eight  children  already,  and  would  consider  the  ninth  a 
further  blessing.  Her  husband  is  a  good-looking  man, 
too,  and  most  devoted.  In  fact,  they  are  quite  an  ideal 
pair  with  their  eight  children  and  their  fish  shop.  He  had 
to  go  to  Yarmouth  the  other  day  to  buy  bloaters,  and 
while  he  was  away  she  went  by  the  five  o'clock  train  every 
morning  to  choose  the  day's  supply  of  fish  for  the  shop, 
and  he  was  quite  unhappy  about  it.  He  was  afraid  she 
would '  overdo '  herself,  and  rather  than  that  should  happen, 


38  IDEALA. 

he  desired  her  to  let  the  business  go  to  the — ahem  !  He 
made  her  write  every  day  to  say  how  she  was,  and  was 
wretched  till  he  returned  to  relieve  her  of  her  arduous  duties. 
She  made  friends  with  me  during  the  scarlet-fever  epidemic. 
Number  eight  was  a  baby  then,  and  she  was  afraid  he  might 
catch  the  disease  and  be  taken  to  the  hospital  and  die  for 
want  of  her  ;  and  I  sympathized  strongly  with  her  denun- 
ciations of  the  cruelty  of  the  act.  Fancy  taking  little  babies 
from  their  mothers  !  Barbarous,  don't  you  think  it  ?  One 
day  a  lady  came  into  the  shop  while  I  was  there.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  bright  pink  costume,  with  a  large  hat  all  smoth- 
ered in  pink  f  Bathers.  I  thought  of  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  and 
felt  alarmed.  Mrs.  Polter  told  me  afterward  she  was  'just  a 
lady,'  rolling  in  recently  acquired  wealth,  and  'as  hard  to 
please  as  if  she  had  never  washed  her  own  doorstep.  It  was 
then  I  learned  the  difference  between  '  a  lady'  and  '  a  real 
lady.' " 

One  of  Ideala's  exploits  got  into  the  paper  somehow,  and 
she  was  annoyed  about  it,  and  anxious  to  make  us  believe 
the  account  of  the  risk  she  ran  had  been  greatly  exagger- 
ated. I  was  present  when  she  gave  her  own  version  of  the 
story,  which  was  characteristic  in  every  way. 

"  I  heard  frantic  cries  from  the  river,"  she  said.  "  Some 
one  was  shrieking,  '  The  child  will  be  drowned  1 '  and  I  ran 
to  see  what  was  the  matter.  A  man  was  tearing  up  and 
down  on  the  bank,  a  child  was  struggling  in  the  water,  and 
as  there  was  nobody  else  to  be  seen,  he  looked  to  me  for  as- 
sistance I  advised  him  to  go  in  and  bring  the  child  out,  but 
the  idea  did  not  appear  to  commend  itself  to  him,  so  he  took 
to  running  up  and  down  again,  bawling,  '  The  child  will  be 
drowned  I '  And  indeed  it  seemed  very  likely  ;  so  I  was 
obliged  to  \jo  in  and  bring  it  out  myself.  The  man  was  over- 
joyed when  I  restored«it  to  him.  He  clasped  it  in  his  arms 
with  every  demonstration  of  affection  ;  and  then  he  looked 
at  me  and  became  embarrassed.  He  evidently  felt  that  he 
ought  to  say  something,  but  the  difficulty  was  what  to  say. 
At  last  a  bright  idea  seemed  to  strike  him.  His  countenance 


IDEALA.  87 

cleared,  and  he  spoke  with  much  feeling.  '  I  am  afraid  you 
are  rather  wet,'  he  observed  ;  aud  then  he  left  me,  and  a 
sympathetic  landlady,  who  keeps  a  little  public-house  by  the 
river,  and  had  witnessed  the  occurrence,  took  me  in  and 
dried  me.  She  gave  me  whi-ky  and  hot  water,  and  enter- 
tained me  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon.  She  is  a  remarka- 
ble woman,  and  I  should  visit  her  often  were  it  not  for  her 
love  of,  and  faith  in,  whisky  and  hot  water.  I  told  her  there 
are  five  things  which  make  the  nose  red — viz.,  cold,  tight- 
lacing,  disease  of  the  right  side  of  the  heart,  dyspepsia,  and 
alcohol,  and  the  greatest  of  these  is  alcohol ;  but  she  says 
a  little  color  anywhere  would  be  an  improvement  to  me,  and 
I  feel  that  I  can  have  nothing  in  common  with  a  woman 
who  has  such  bad  taste  in  the  distribution  of  color." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

IDEALA'S  notions  of  propriety  were  altogether  unconven- 
tional. She  never  could  be  made  to  understand  that  it  was 
not  the  proper  thing  to  talk  familiarly  to  any  one  she  met, 
and  discuss  any  subject  they  were  equal  to  with  them. 

"  It  is  good  for  people  to  talk,  and  natural,  and  therefore 
proper,"  she  said,  "  If  I  can  give  pleasure  to  a  stranger  by 
doing  so,  cr  he  can  give  pleasure  to  me,  it  would  not  be 
right  to  keep  silent." 

She  carried  this  idea  of  her  duty  to  her  neighbor  rather 
far  sometimes. 

I  remember  her  telling  me  once  about  two  old  gentlemen 
she  liad  traveled  with  the  day  before. 

"  The  sun  came  in  and  bothered  me,  and  one  of  them 
offered  to  draw  the  blind,"  she  said,  "  and  he  remarked  it 
was  rather  a  treat  to  see  the  sun,  we  have  so  little  of  it 
now  ;  and  I  said  that  was  true,  and  told  him  how  I  pitied 
the  farmers.  I  had  to  stay  in  my  room  the  other  day  with 
a  bad  cold,  and  I  amused  myself  watching  one  of  them  at 
work  in  some  fields  opposite.  The  state  of  his  mind  was 
expressed  by  his  boots.  On  Monday  the  sun  was  shining, 


88  IDEALA. 

the  air  was  mild,  and  it  seemed  as  if  we  were  going  to  have 
a  continuance  of  fine  weather,  and  the  farmer  appeared  of 
a  cheerful  countenance,  and  his  boots  were  polished  and 
laced.  On  Tuesday  there  was  an  east  wind,  veering  south, 
with  showers,  and  his  boots  were  laced,  but  not  polished. 
On  Wednesday  there  was  fros^,  fog  and  gloom,  and  they 
were  neither  laced  nor  polished.  On  Thursday  there  was 
a  snowstorm,  and  he  had  no  boots  at  all  on  ;  and  after 
that  I  did  not  see  him,  and  I  wondered  if  he  had  committed 
suicide— in  which  case  I  thought  the  jury  might  almost 
have  brought  in  a  verdict  of  'justifiable  felo-de-se.'  And 
when  I  told  that  story  the  other  old  gentleman  shut  his 
book,  and  began  to  talk,  too.  And  I  said  I  thought  the 
weather  was  much  colder  than  it  used  to  be,  for  I  could 
remember  wearing  muslin  dresses  in  May,  and  I  could  not 
wear  them  at  all  now  ;  but  I  did  not  know  if  the  change 
were  in  the  climate  or  in  myself— perhaps  a  little  of  both 
— though,  indeed,  I  knew  that,  to  a  certain  extent,  it  was 
in  the  climate,  which  had  been  very  much  altered  in  differ- 
ent districts  by  drainage,  and  cutting,  or  planting— altered 
for  the  better,  however,  as  a  rule.  And  one  old  gentle- 
man had  heard  that  before,  but  did  not  understand  it  ex_ 
actly,  so  I  explained  it  to  him  ;  and  then  I  talked  about 
changes  of  climate  in  general,  and  the  formation  of  beds 
of  coal,  and  the  ice  period,  and  sun  spots,  and  the  theory 
of  comets,  and  about  my  husband  getting  up  to  see  the 
last  one,  and  going  out  in  a  felt  hat  and  dressing-gown 
with  a  bed-candle  to  look  for  it — and  about  that  dream  of 
mine,  did  I  tell  you?  I  dreamed  the  comet  came  into  our 
drawing-room,  and  the  leg  of  a  Chinese  table  turned  into 
a  snake  and  snorted  at  it,  and  the  comet  looked  so  taken 
aback  that  I  woke  myself  with  a  shout  of  laughter.  And 
then  we  talked  of  popular  superstitions  about  comets,  and 
dreams,  and  ghosts — particularly  ghosts,  and  I  told  a  num- 
ber of  creepy  stories,  and  one  old  gentleman  pretended  he 
didn't  believe  in  them,  but  he  did,  and  so  did  the  other 
without  Any  pretense ;  and  we  talked  about  Darwinism, 


IDEALA.  39 

and  the  nature  of  the  soul,  and  Nihilism,  and  the  state  of 
society—and— and  a  few  other  things.  And  they  were 
such  dear,  delightful  old  gentlemen,  and  they  knew  such 
a  lot,  and  were  so  clever  ;  and  one  of  them  was  a  railway 
director,  and  the  other  couldn't  let  his  farms,  and  was 
bothered  about  his  pheasants,  and  wanted  to  have  the  trains 
altered  to  suit  him.  I  should  so  like  to  meet  them  both 
again." 

"  And  how  long  did  all  this  take,  Ideala?" 

"  Oh,  some  hours.  I  fancy  their  dreams  would  be  rather 
confused  last  night,"  she  added  naively. 

"  Poor  old  gentlemen  I"  said  I. 

This  sociability  and  inclination  to  talk  the  matter  out, 
and,  I  may  say,  a  certain  amount  of  innocence  and  lack  of 
worldly  wisdom  into  the  bargain,  betrayed  her  occasionally 
into  small  improprieties  of  conduct  that  were  not  to  be 
excused,  and  would  possibly  not  have  been  forgiven  in  any 
one  but  Ideala.  But  such  things  were  allowed  in  her  as 
certain  things  were  allowed  ia  certain  people — not  because 
the  things  are  right  in  themselves,  but  because  the  people 
who  do  them  see  no  harm  in  them.  There  are  people,  too 
who  seem  to  enjoy  the  privilege  of  making  wrong  right  by 
doing  it.  Society,  however,  only  accords  this  privilege  to 
a  limited  and  distinguished  few. 

When  Indala  saw  for  herself  that  she  had  done  an  un- 
justifiable thing,  she  was  very  ready  to  confess  it.  I  always 
fancied  she  had  some  latent  idea  of  making  atonement  in 
that  way;  It  never  mattered  how  much  a  story  told  against 
herself,  nor  how  much  malicious  people  might  make  of  it 
to  her  discredit,  she  told  all,  inimitably,  and  with  scrupu- 
lous fidelity  to  fact. 

One  day  she  was  standing  waiting  for  a  train  at  the  sta- 
tion at  York,  and  in  her  absent  way  she  fixed  her  eyes  on 
a  gentleman  who  was  walking  about  the  platform. 

Presently  he  went  up  to  her,  and,  without  any  apology 
«r  show  of  respect,  remarked  : 

"  I  am  sure  I  have  seen  you  before." 


40  IDEALA. 

"Probably,"  Ideala  rejoined,  as  if  the  occurrence  were 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world,  "  but  I  do  not  remem- 
ber you.  Perhaps  if  I  heard  your  name " 

c£  Oh,  I  don't  suppose  you  ever  heard  my  name,"  he  said. 

"  In  that  case  I  can  never  have  known  you,"  she  an- 
swered calmly.  "  I  never  know  any  one  except  by  name. 
I  suppose  you  are  an  Englishman  ?  '* 

"  Yes,"  he  said  eagerly  ;  "  I  am  in  the  Fifth " 

"  Ah,  I  thought  so  1"  she  interrupted,  placidly.  "  Eng- 
lishmen in  the  Fifth,  and  some  other  regiments,  are  apt  to 
have  but  the  one  idea " 

"And  that  is?" 

"  And  that  is  a  bad  one." 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  then,  hat  in  hand, 
he  made  her  a  low  bow,  and  left  her  without  another  word. 

"  I  think  he  felt  ill,  and  went  to  have  some  refresh- 
ment," she  added,  when  she  told  me. 

From  what  happened  afterward,  I  am  sure  that  at  the 
time  she  had  no  idea  of  the  real  significance  of  the  position 
in  which  she  found  herself  placed  on  this  occasion.  But, 
as  a  rule,  if  she  did  or  said  the  wrong  thing,  she  became 
painfully  conscious  of  the  fact  immediately  afterward— in- 
deed, it  was  generally  afterward  that  she  grasped  the  full 
meaning  of  most  things.  She  was  ready  with  repartee 
without  being  in  the  least  quick  of  understanding  ;  she  had 
to  think  things  over,  and  even  then  she  was  not  sure  to  do 
the  right  thing  next  time. 

"  Mr.  Graves  is  ten  years  younger  than  his  wife,"  she 
told  me  once,  "and  only  fancy  what  I  said  one  day.  It 
was  in  his  studio,  and  she  was  there.  I  declared  a  woman 
could  have  no  sense  of  propriety  at  all  who  married  a  man 
younger  than  herself — that  no  good  could  possibly  come  of 
such  marriages — and  a  lot  more.  Then  I  suddenly  remem- 
bered, and  you  can  imagine  my  feelings.  But  what  do 
you  think  I  did?  I  went  there  the  next  year,  and  said  the 
same  thing  again  exactly  I " 


tDEALA.  41 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

'WHEN  we  -were  a  small  party  of  intimate  friends,  and 
Ideala  was  quite  at  her  ease  with  us,  it  was  pleasant  to  see 
her  lolling,  a  little  languidly  as  was  her  wont  (for  physically 
her  energy  was  fitful;,  in  the  corner  of  a  couch,  look- 
ing liappy  and  interested,  her  face,  which  was  sad  in  re- 
pose, lighted  up  for  the  time  with  amusement,  as  she 
quietly  listened'  to  our  talk,  and  observed  all  that  was 
going  on  around  her.  Even  when  she  did  not  speak  a  word 
she  somehow  managed  to  make  her  presence  felt,  and,  as 
a  rule,  she  spoke  little  on  these  occasions.  But  sometimes 
we  managed  to  draw  her  out,  and  sometimes  she  would 
burst  forth  suddenly  of  her  own  accord,  with  a  torrent  of 
eloquence  that  siUnced  us  all;  and  even  when  she  was 
utterly  wrong  she  charmed  us.  !Her  chance  observations 
were  generally  noteworthy  either  for  their  sense  or  their 
humor.  It  was  only  her  sense  of  humor,  I  think,  that 
saved  her  from  being  sentimental ;  but  she  gave  expres- 
sion to  it  in  season  and  out  of  season,  and  would  let  it 
carry  her  too  far  somelimes,  for  she  made  enemies  for  her- 
self more  than  once  by  the  way  she  exposed  the  absurdity 
of  certain  things  to  the  very  people  who  believed  in  them. 
Every  lapse  of  this  kind  caused  her  infinite  regret,  but  the 
fault  seemed  incurable  ;  she  was  always  either  repenting  of 
it  or  comnutting  it,  although,  having  so  many  quirks  of 
her  own,  she  felt  that  she,  of  all  people  in  the  world, 
should  have  dealt  most  tenderly  with  the  weaknesses  of 
others. 

She  knew  how  narrowly  she  escaped  being  sentimental, 
and  would  often  joke  about  her  danger  in  that  respect. 

"  This  lovely  summer  weather  makies  me  sickly  senti- 
mental," she  told  me  once.  "  I  feel  like  the  heroine  of  a 
three-volume  novel  written  by  a  young  lady  of  eighteen, 
and  I  think  continually  of  him.  I  don't  know  in  the  least 
who  he  is,  but  that  makes  no  difference.  The  thought  of 
him  delights  me,  and  I  want  to  write  long  letters  to  him. 


43  IDEALA. 

and  make  verses  about  him  the  whole  day  long.  And  he 
wants  me  to  be  good." 

She  had  two  or  three  pet  abominations  of  her  own,  any 
allusion  to  which  was  sure  to  make  her  outrageous— false 
sentiment  and  affectation  of  any  kind  were  among  them. 
She  had  little  habits,  too,  that  we  were  all  pleased  to  fall  in 
with.  Sitting  in  the  corner  of  a  couch,  and  of  one  couch 
in  particular  in  every  house,  was  one  of  these  ;  and  people 
got  into  the  way  of  giving  up  that  seat  to  her  whenever 
she  appeared.  I  think  it  would  have  puzzled  us  all  to  say 
why  or  wherefore,  for  she  never  said  or  looked  anything 
that  could  make  us  think  she  wished  to  appropriate  it ; 
she  simply  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course  when  it  was  offered 
to  her,  and  probably  did  not  know  that  she  invariably  sat 
there. 

Ideala  was  a  splendid  horsewoman,  and  swam  likoa  fish; 
but  she  was  not  good  at  tennis  or  games  of  any  kind,  and 
she  did  not  dance,  for  a  curious  reason:  she  objected  to  be 
touchei  by  people  for  whom  she  had  no  special  affection. 
She  even  disliked  to  shake  hands,  and  often  wished  some 
one  would  put  the  custom  out  of  fashion.  With  regard  to 
dancing,  I  have  heard  her  say,  too,  that  she  sympathized 
entirely  with  the  Oriental  feeling  on  the  subject.  She 
thought  it  delightful  to  be  danced  to,  to  lie  still  with  a  pleas- 
ant companion  near  her  who  would  not  talk  too  much,  and 
listen  to  the  music,  and  enjoy  the  poetry  of  motion  coolly 
and  at  ease. 

"  I  love  to  see  '  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune,'"  she  said ; 
"  but  to  have  to  dance  myself  would  be  as  great  a  bother  as 
to  have  to  cook  my  dinner  as  well  as  eat  it.  I  suppose  it 
is  a  healthy  amusement — indeed,  I  know  it  is  when  you 
take  it  as  I  do:  for  when  all  you  people  come  down  the 
morning  after  a  dance,  with  haggard  eyes  and  no  power  to 
do  anything,  I  am  as  fresh  as  a  lark,  and  have  decidedly 
the  best  of  it." 

She  \va^  not  good  at  games,  because  she  was  not  ambi- 
tious. She  did  not  care  to  have  her  skill  commended,  and 


IDEALA.  4S 

was  concent  to  lose  or  win  with  equal  indifference — so  long 
as  only  the  honor  of  the  thing  was  involved  ;  but  when  the 
stakes  were  more  material  she  showed  a  vice  of  which 
she  was  quite-conscious. 

"  I  daren't  play  for  money,"  she  said  to  me.  "  I  never 
have,  and  I  have  always  said  that  I  never  will.  All  the 
women  of  my  family  are  born  gamblers.  My  mother  has 
often  told  me  that  regularly,  when  she  was  a  girl,  the  day 
after  she  received  her  allowance  she  had  either  doubled  it 
or  lost  it  all;  and  before  she  was  twenty  she  hadn't  a  jewel 
worth  anything  in  her  possession — and  my  aunts  were  as 
bad.  One  of  them  staked  herself  one  night  to  a  gentleman 
she  was  playing  with,  and  he  won,  and  married  her. 
Gambling  was  more  the  custom  then  than  it  is  now,  but 
for  me  it  is  as  much  in  the  air  as  if  it  were  still  the  fashion. 
When  there  is  any  talk  of  play  I  feel  fascinated,  and  when 
I  see  a  pack  of  cards  the  temptation  is  so  irresistible  that 
I  have  often  to  go  away  to  save  my  resolution." 

Which  made  me  think  of  a  favorite  quotation  of  Less- 
ing's,  from  '•  Minna  "  :  "  Tout  les  gens  d'esprit  aimentle 
jeu  a  la  folie." 

CHAPTER  IX. 

IDEALA 's  low  esteem  for  ''mere  animal  courage  "was 
probably  due  to  the  fact  that  she  possessed  it  herself  in  a 
high  degree.  Yet -soon  after  I  met  her  I  began  to  suspect, 
and  was  afterward  convinced,  that  something  in  her  man- 
ner which  had  puzzled  me  at  first  arose  from  fear.  There 
was  that  in  her  life  which  made  her  afraid  of  the  world, 
which  would,  had  it  guessed  the  truth,  have  pried  with 
curious  eyes  into  her  sorrow,  and  found  an  interest  in  see- 
ing her  suffer.  The  trouble  was  her  husband.  She  rarely 
spoke  of  him  herself,  and  I  think  I  ought  to  follow  her  ex- 
ample, and  say  as  little  about  him  as  possible.  He  was 
jealous  of  her,  jealous  of  her  popularity,  and  jealous  of 
every  one  who  approached  her.  He  carried  it  so  far  that 
she  scarcely  dared  to  show  a  preference,  and  \\  as  even 


44  IDE  ALA. 

obliged  to  be  cold  and  reserved  with  some  of  her  best 
friends.  I  was  a  privileged  person,  allowed  to  be  intimate 
with  her  from  the  first,  partly  because  I  insisted  on  it  when 
I  saw  how  matters  stood,  and  partly  because  my  position 
and  reputation  gave  me  a  right  to  insist.  I  never  had  oc- 
casion to  brave  insults  for  her  sake,  but,  like  many  others, 
I  would  have  done  so  had  it  been  necessary.  Her  friends 
were  constantly  being  driven  from  her  on  one  pretext  or 
another.  People  would  have  taken  her  part  readily  enough 
had  she  complained,  but  complaint  was  contrary  to  her 
nature  and  her  principles.  Some,  who  suspected  the  truth, 
blamed  her  reticence;  but  I  always  thought  it  right,  and  on 
one  occasion,  when  we  approached  the  subject  indirectly, 
I  told  her  "  Silence  is  best."  I  ought  to  have  qualified  the 
advice,  for  she  carried  it  too  far,  and  was  silent  afterward 
when  she  should  have  spoken — that  is  to  say,  when  it  had 
become  evident  that  endurance  was  useless  and  degrading. 

She  fought  hard  to  preserve  her  dignity,  and  was  deter- 
mined tha<;  "  as  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is,"  should  not  be 
true  in  her  case.  But  he  did  lower  her  insensibly,  never- 
theless. As  her  life  became  more  and  more  unendurable 
she  became  a  little  reckless  in  speech;  it  was  a  sort  of  safety- 
valve  by  means  of  which  she  regained  her  composure,  and 
I  soon  began  to  recognize  the  sign,  and  to  judge  of  the 
amount  she  had  suffered  by  the  length  to  which  she  after- 
ward went  in  search  of  relief,  and  the  extent  to  which  suf- 
fering made  her  untrue  to  herself. 

As  a  rule,  when  with  him,  she  was  yielding,  but  she  had 
fits  ©f  determination,  too,  when  she  knew  she  was  right. 
One  night,  as  they  were  driving  home  from  a  ball  together, 
her  husband  suddenly  declared  that  he  would  not  allow  her 
to  be  one  of  the  patronesses  of  a  fancy  fair  which  was  to 
be  held  for  a  charitable  purpose,  although  she  had  already 
consented,  and  he  had  made  no  objection  at  the  time. 

"  But  why  may  I  not?"  Ideala  asked. 

"Becau-e  I  object.  Do  you  hear?  I  will  not  have  it, 
and  you  must  withdraw." 


IDEALA.  45 

"  I  must  decline  to  obey  any  such  arbitrary  injunction,' 
She  answered  quietly. 

He  detained  her  on  the  doorstep  until  the  carriage  had 
driven  round  to  the  stables. 

"  Now,  are  you  going  to  obey  me?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  if  you  give  me  a  reason  for  what  you  require," 
she  answered  wearily. 

"  Oh,  you  are  obstinate,  are  you?"  he  rejoined  in  a  jeer- 
ing tone.  ''  Well,  stay  »n  the  garden  and  think  it  over. 
Perhaps  reflection  will  make  you  more  dutiful.  I  shall  tell 
your  maid  you  will  not  want  her  to-night.  "When  you 
have  made  up  your  mind  you  can  ring." 

And  so  saying,  he  walked  into  the  house  and  shut  the 
door  upon  her. 

It  was  a  summer  night,  but  Ideala  felt  chilly  with  only  a 
thin  shawl  over  her  ball-dress.  She  walked  about  as  long 
as  she  could,  but  fatigue  overcame  her  at  last,  and  she  was 
obliged  to  lie  down  on  one  of  the  garden  seats.  She 
wrapped  the  train  of  her  dress  round  her  shoulders,  and  lay 
looking  up  at  the  stars.  The  air  was  heavy  with  the  scent 
of  flowers.  The  night  was  very  still.  Once  or  twice  the 
rush  of  a  passing  train  in  the  distance  became  audible,  and 
the  ceaseless,  solemn,  inarticulate  murmur  of  the  night  was 
broken  by  a  nightingale  that  sung  out  at  intervals,  divinely. 

Ideala  never  thought  of  submitting  ;  she  simply  lay  there, 
waiting  without  expecting.  The  night  air  overcame  her 
more  and  more  with  a  sense  of  fatigue,  but  she  could  not 
sleep.  She  saw  the  darkness  fade  and  the  dawn  appear, 
and  when  at  last  the  servants  began  to  move  in  the  house, 
she  watched  her  opportunity  and  slipped  in  unobserved. 
She  went  to  one  of  the  spare  rooms,  undressed,  rang,  and 
^ot  into  bed.  When  the  bell  was  answered,  she  ordered  a 
hot  bath  and  hot  coffee  immediately.  The  maid  supposed 
she  had  slept  there,  and  seemed  surprised  ;  but  as  her  mis- 
tress offered  no  explanation  she  could  make  no-  remark  : 
and  so  the  matter  ended. 

But  I  do  not  think  Ideala  suffered  much  on  thai  occasion. 


-iv  IDE  ALA. 

Her  strong  young  womanhood  saved  her  somewhat — and 
there  was  a  charm  for  her  in  the  beauty  of  the  night  and 
the  novelty  of  her  position,  which  a  less  healthy  organism 
would  not  have  appreciated  had  it  been  able  to  discover 
it — at  such  a  time. 


CHAPTER   X. 

IDEALA  had  been  married  eight  years,  and  two  months 
after  that  night  the  long-delayed  hope  of  her  life,  which 
she  had  begun  to  believe  was  beyond  hope,  was  at  last 
realized.  Her  child  was  a  boy,  and  her  joy  in  him  is  some- 
thing that  one  is  glad  to  have  seen.  But  it  was  short  lived. 
I  do  not  know  if  her  husband  was  jealous  of  her  happiness, 
or  if  he  thought  the  child  was  more  to  her  than  he  was,  or 
if  he  were  merely  making  a  proposition,  by  way  of  experi- 
ment, which  he  never  meant  to  carry  into  effect— probably 
the  latter.  At  all  events,  he  went  to  her  one  day  when  the 
child  was  about  six  weeks  old,  and  told  her  he  thought  she 
must  give  up  nursi-ag  him. 

The  mother's  nature  was  up  in  arms  in  a  moment.  I 
suppose  she  had  not  quite  regained  her  strength,  for  she 
had  been  very  ill,  and,. being  weak,  she  was  excitable. 

"  I  will  not  give  my  baby  up !  How  caa  you  think  it  ?' 
she  exclaimed. 

"  Oh,  well,"  he  answered  coolly,  "  just  as  you  like,  you 
know.  But  I  should  think  you'd  better— for  the  child's 
sake,  at  least." 

"  It  isn't  true.    I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said  piteously. 

"  Ask  the  doctor,  then,"  and  he  sauntered  out,  smiling, 
and  perhaps  not  dreaming  that  she  would. 

But  "  for  the  child's  sake"  had  alarmed  Ideala,  and  she 
sent  for  the  doctor.  It  was  hours  before  he  could  come  to 
her,  and,  in  the  mean  time,  not  knowing  that  her  state  of 
mind  would  affect  the  child,  she  had  fidgeted  and  fretted 
herself  into  a  fever,  and  when  the  doctor  saw  her  he  could 
only  confirm  her  husband's  verdict. 


IDE  ALA.  47 

"  I  am  afraid  you  must  give  up  nursing,"  he  said.  "  You 
are  in  such  a  nervous  state  it  will  do  the  child  harm. 
But  he's  such  a  fine  fellow  !  He'll  thrive  all  right— you 
needn't  be  frightened." 

Ideala  said  nothing,  but  she  sat  in  her  own  room  night 
after  night  for  a  week,  and  heard  the  child  crying  for  her, 
and  could  not  go  to  him — and  even  when  he  did  not  cry  she 
fancied  she  heard  him  still.  I  think  as  the  milk  slowly 
and  painfully  left  her,  her  last  spark  of  affection  for  her 
husband  dried  up  too. 

TLe  child  died  of  diphtheria  some  time  afterward,  and  in 
a  little  while  Ideala,  who  was  then  in  her  twenty-sixth 
year,  returned  to  her  old  pursuits  and  no  one  ever  knew 
what  she  felt  about  it : 

For,  it  is  with  feelings  as  with  waters— 

The  shallow  murmur,  but  the  deep  are  dumb ! 


CHAPTER  XI. 

MY  widowed  sister,  Claudia,  was  one  of  Ideala's  most 
intimate  friends.  She  was  a  good  deal  older  than  Ideala, 
whom  she  loved  as  a  mother  loves  a  naughty  child,  forever 
finding  fault  with  her,  but  ready  to  be  up  in  arms  in  a 
moment  if  any  one  else  ventured  to  do  likewise.  She  was 
inclined  to  quarrel  with  me  because,  although  I  never 
doubted  Ideala's  truth  and  earnestness  (no  one  could), 
knowing  her  weak  point,  I  feared  for  her.  I  thought  if 
all  the  passion  in  her  were  ever  focused  on  one  object  she 
would  do  something  extravagant — a  prediction  which 
Claudia,  with  good  intent,  rashly  repeated  to  her  once. 

Claudia  was  mistress  of  my  house,  and  she  and  I  had 
agreed  from  the  first  that,  whatever  happened,  we  would 
watch  over  Ideala  and  befriend  her. 

My  sister  was  one  of  the  people  who  thought  it  would 
have  been  better  for  Ideala  to  have  talked  of  her  troubles. 
When  I  praised  Ideala's  loyalty,  and  her  uncomplaining; 
devotion  to  aa  uncongenial  duty,  Claudia  said  : 


48  IDEALA. 

"Loyality  is  all  very  well  ;  but  I  don't  see  much  merit- 
in  a  life-long  devotion  to  a  bad  cause.  If  there  were  any 
good  to  be  done  by  it,  it  would  be  different,  of  course ; 
but,  as  it  is,  Ideala  is  simply  sacrificing  herself  for  nothing 
— and  worse,  she  is  setting  a  bad  example  by  showing  men 
they  need  not  mend  their  manners,  since  wives  will  endure 
anything.  It  is  immoral  for  a  woman  to  live  with  such  a 
husband.  I  don't  understand  Ideala's  meekness  ;  it  amounts' 
to  weakness  sometimes,  I  think.  I  believe  if  he  struck  her 
she  would  say,  *  Thank  you,'  and  fetch  him  his  slippers.  I 
feel  sure  she  thinks  some  unknown  defect  in  herself  is  at 
the  bottom  of  all  his  misdeeds." 

"  I  don't  think  she  knows  half  as  much  about  his  mis- 
deeds as  we  do,"  I  observed. 

"Then  I  think  it  would  be  a  charity  to  enlighten  her," 
Claudia  answered  decidedly.  "  One  can't  touch  pitch  with- 
out being  defiled,  and  when  it  is  too  late  we  shall  find  she 
has  suffered  'some  taint  in  nature,'  inspire  of  herself.  Will 
you  kindly  take  us  to  the  palace  this  evening  ?  The  bishop 
wants  us  to  go  in  after  dinner,  and  Ideala  has  promised  to 
come,  too." 

Ideala  was  fastidious  about  her  dress,  and  being  in  one 
of  her  moods  that  evening,  she  teased  Claudia  unmercifully, 
on  the  way  to  the  palace,  about  a  blue  woolen  shawl  she 
was  wearing. 

"A  delicate  and  refined  nature  expresses  itself  by  nothing 
more  certainly  than  elegant  wraps,"  she  said,  parodying 
another  famous  dictum  ;  ' '  and  I  should  not  like  to  be  able 
to  understand  the  state  of  mind  a  lady  was  in  wheu  she 
bought  herself  a  blue  woolen  shawl ;  but  I  could  believe 
she  was  suffering  at  the  time  from  a  temporary  aberration 
of  intellect — only,  if  she  wore  it  af terward,  the  thing  would 
be  quite  inexplicable." 

Claudia  drew  the  wrap  round  her  with  dignity,  and  made 
no  reply  ;  then  Ideala  laughed  and  turned  to  me. 

"  Certainly  your  friend,"  she  said,  alluding  to  n  young 
sculptor  who  was  staying  with  me,  "  can  '  invest  his  por- 


TDEALA.  & 

traits  with  artistic  merit.'  Claudia's  likeness  in  the  Ex- 
hibition is  capital,  and  the  fame  of  it  is  being  noised  abroad 
with  a  vengeance.  But  I  think  something  should  be  done 
to  stop  the  little  newspaper-boy  nuisance  ;  the  reports  they 
spread  are  quite  alarming." 

"  Ideala,  what  nonsense  are  you  talking  about  sculptors 
and  newspaper -boys?"  Claudia  exclaimed. 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Ideala.  "  There  was  a  small  boy 
with  a  big  voice  standing  at  the  corner  of  the  market-plac .? 
this  afternoon.  He  had  a  sheaf  of  evening  papers  under 
his  arm,  and  was  yelling  with  much  enthusiasm  to  an  edi- 
fied crowd  :  '  Noose  of  the  War  !  Hawful  mutilation  of 
the  dead  !  Fearful  collision  in  the  Channel !  Eighty -eight 
lives  lost !  Narrative  of  survivors  !  Thrilling  details  1 
Shindy  in  Parl'ment !  Hirish  members  to  the  front  again 
'Orrible  haccident  in  our  own  town  1  The  Lady  Claudia's 
bust!'" 

"Ideala,  how  dare  you?"  but  just  then  the  carriage 
stopped,  and  we  had  to  get  out. 

The  good  bishop  met  us  in  the  hall.  Ideala  positively 
declined  to  go  up  stairs  when  he  asked  her. 

"  It  is  too  much  trouble,"  she  said,  not  seeing  in  her 
absence  what  was  meant.  "  I  would  rather  leave  my  things 
here." 

"  But  I  am  afraid  I  must  trouble  you,"  tho  bishop  an- 
swered in  despair.  "  The  fact  is,  my  wife  is  not  so  well 
this  evening,  and  she  was  afraid  of  the  cold,  and  is  staying 
in  her  own  sitting-room ." 

The  "sitting-room"  was  a  snug  apartment,  warm,  cozy, 
luxurious,  and  we  found  a  genial  little  party  of  intimate 
acquaintances  there  when  we  arrived.  Ideala's  husband 
was  not  one  of  them.  He  did  not  take  her  out  much  at 
that  time.  Probably  he  was  engaged  in  some  private 
pursuit  of  his  own,  and  insisted  on  her  going  everywhere 
alone  to  keep  he  out  of  the  way.  A  little  while  before  he 
would  scarcely  allow  her  to  pay  a  call  without  him.  But, 
as  a  rule,  whatever  his  mood  was,  she  did  as  he  wished— 


50  IDEALA. 

and  provoked  him  sometimes,  I  think,  by  her  patient  com- 
pliance ;  a  little  resistance  would  have  made  the  exercise  of 
his  authority  more  exciting. 

When  we  entered  the  sitting-room,  "an  ominous  silence 
fell  on  the  group,"  which  was  broken  at  last  by  one  of  the 
ladies  remarking  that  a  kind  heart  was  an  admirable  thing. 
Another  agreed,  and  made  some  observations  on  the  merits 
of  self-sacrifice  generally. 

"  But  some  people  are  not  satisfied  with  merely  doing  a 
good  deed,"  a  gentleman  declared,  with  profound  gravity. 
"  They  think  there  is  no  merit  in  it  if  they  do  not  suffer 
for  it  in  some  way  themselves." 

There  was  a  good  deal  more  of  this  kind  of  thing,  and 
we  were  beginning  to  feel  rather  out  of  it,  when  presently 
the  preternatural  gravity  of  the  party  was  broken  by  a 
laugh,  and  then  it  was  explained. 

Ideala  had  gone  to  a  neighboring  town  one  day  by  train, 
and  before  she  started  a  poor  woman  got  into  the  carriage. 
The  woman  had  a  third-class  ticket,  but  she  was  evidently 
ill,  and  when  the  guard  came  and  wanted  to  turn  her  out, 
Ideala  took  pity  on  her,  insisted  on  changing  tickets,  and 
traveled  third-class  herself.  The  woman  had  been  to  the 
palace,  and  described  the  incident  to  the  bishop's  wife  that 
morning,  and  the  had  just  told  her  guests,  wondering  who 
the  lady  could  have  been,  aud  they  in  turn  had  put  their 
heads  together  and  decided  thac  there  was  no  one  in  the 
community  but  Ideala  who  would  have  done  the  thing  in 
that  way. 

"  But  what  else  could  I  have  done'?"  she  asked,  when 
she  saw  we  were  laughing  at  her. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  said  the  bishop,  who  always  treated 
her  with  the  kind  indulgence  that  is  accorded  to  a  favorite 
child,  "  you  might  have  paid  the  difference  for  the  woman, 
and  traveled  comfortably  yourself ,  don't  you  know  ?  " 

Ideala  never  thought  of  that. 

Presently  the  dear  old  bishop  nestled  back  in  his  chair, 
and  with  a  benign  glance  round,  which,  his  scapegrace  son 


IDEALA.  51 

said,  meant,  "  Blesss  you,  my  children  I  Be  happy  and  good 
in  your  own  way,  but  don't  make  a  noise  1 "  he  sunk  into 
a  gentle  dose,  and  the  rest  of  the  party  relapsed  into  trivial 
gossip,  some  of  which  I  give  for  what  it  is  worth  byway  of 
illustration.  It  shows  Ideala  at  about  her  worst,  but 
marks  a  period  in  her  career,  a  turning-point  for  the  better. 
She  was  seldom  bitter,  and  still  more  rarely  frivolous,  after 
that  night. 

"  Clare  Turner  will  take  none  of  the  blame  of  that  affair 
on  his  own  shoulders,"  some  one  remarked. 

"  Mr.  Clare  Turner  is  the  little  boy  who  always  said,  '  It 
wasn't  me  !'  grown  up,"  Ideala  decided,  from  the  corner 
of  her  couch.  "  He  is  a  sort  of  two-reason  man." 

"  How  do  yon  mean  'a  two-reason  man,'  Ideala  ?" 

"  Well,  he  has  only  two  reasons  for  everything :  one  is 
his  reason  for  doing  anything  he  likes  himself,  which  is 
always  a  good  one  ;  and  the  other  is  his  reason  why  the  rest 
of  the  world  should  not  do  likewise,  which  is  equally  clear 
— to  himself.  He  thinks  there  should  be  one  law  for  him 
and  another  for  everybody  else.  I  don't  believe  in  him." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  one  of  the  gentlemen.  "  Underhand 
bowling  was  all  he  was  celebrated  for  at  school ;  he  bowled 
most  frightful  sneaks  all  the  time  he  was  there." 

"Talking about  Clare  Turner,"  Charlie  Lloyd  put  in, 
"  I've  brought  a  new  book  of  poems — author  unknown.  I 
picked  it  up  at  the  station  to-day.  There's  one  thing  in  it, 
called  'The  Passion  of  Delysle,'  that  seems  to  be  intense ; 
but  I've  only  just  glanced  at  it,  and  don't  really  know 
what  it's  like.  Shall  I  read  it  ?" 

"Oh,  do  1"  was  the  general  exclamation,  and  we  all  set- 
tled ourselves  to  enjoy  the  following  treat. 

Charlie  began  softly  : 

O  day  and  night  1  O  day  and  night !  and  is  this  madness  ? 
O  day  and  night  I  O  day  and  night !  and  is  this  joy  ? 
Whence  comes  this  bursting  sense  of  life,  and  love,  and 

gladness, 

This  pain  of  pleasure,  perfected,  without  alloy? 
Lo,  flowing  past  me  are  the  restless  rivwrs, 


53  IDEALA. 

Or  swelling  round  me  is  the  boundless  son  ; 
Or  else  the  widening  waste  of  sand  that  quivers 
In  shining  stretches,  shuts  the  world  from  me— 
Or  seems  to  shut  it,   while  I  would  that  what  it  seems 
might  be. 

O  day  and  night  1  O  day  and  night !  this  mountain  island, 
This  saintly  shrine,  this  fort — 1  scarce  know   what  'tis 

yet — 
This  sand,  or  sea-girt,  rocky,  town-clad,  church-crown'd 

h'ghland, 

This  dull  and  rugged  gem  in  golden  deserts  set, 
Has  some  delicious,  unknown  charm  to  hold  me, 
To  draw  me  to  itself  and  keep  me  here  ; 
The  old  gray  walls,  it  seems,  with  joy  infold  me — 
Or  is  it  I  that  make  the  dead  stones  dear, 
And  send  the  throbbing  summer  in  my  blood  through  all 
things  near? 

O  day  and  nipht !  O  day  and  night  I  where  else  do  flowers 
Open  their  velvet  lids  like  these  to  greet  the  light  ? 
Or  raise  such  sun- kissed  lips  aglow  to  meet  cool  showers  ? 
Or  cast  more  subtle  scents  abroad  upon  the  night  ? 
These  trees  and  trailing  weeds  that  climb  the  cliff -side 

The  dusky  pine  trees,  draped  with  wreaths  of  vine, 
Make  bowers  where  love  might  lie  and  list  the  sea-voice 

deep. 

And  drink  the  perfumed  air,  the  light,  like  wine, 
Which  threads  intoxication  through  these  hot,  glad  veins 
of  mine. 
****** 

O  day  and  night  1  O  day  and  night !  I  sought  thi*  haven, 
From  placo,  and  power,  and  wealth  I  flew  in  search  of  rest; 
Tlipy  forced  and  bound  me  to  a  hard,  det 
Who  mocked  my  loathing  with  his  head  upon  nr 
With  deathless  love  1  moaned  for  my  young  lover  ; 
To  make  m>;  great  '»im  from  n- 

And  foully  wrought  witti  shame  his  name  to  cover — 
My  lx>y,  my  lord,  my  prince  I    In  vain  they  lied  ! 
But  should  I  always  suffer  for  their  false,  inhumau  pride? 

0  day  and  night  t  O  day  and  night !  I  left  them  flying, 

1  fled  by  day  and  night  as  flies  the  nomad  biv 
Across  the  silent  land  when  light  to  dark  \\  as  dying, 
And  onward  like  a  .spirit  lost  across  the  seas  ; 


IDEALA.  53 

And  on  from  sea  and  shore  thro'  apple-orchards  blooming, 

Till  all  things  melted  in  a  moving  haze. 

And  on  with  rush  and  ring  by  tower  and  townlet  gloom- 
ing. 

Ii\-  wood,  and  field,  and  hill,  by  verdant  ways, 
While  dawn  to  midday  drew,  and  noou  Avas  lost  1:1  sunset 
blaze. 

O  day  and  night !     O  day  and  night !  light  once  more 

waxing. 
Still  on  \\  ith  courage  high,  tho'  strength  was  well-nigh 

spent; 

Grim  specters  of  pursuit  the  wearied  brain  perplexing, 
Fear-fraught,  but  ever  met  with  spirit  dedolent, 
The  landscape  reeled  there  came  a  sense  of  slumber, 
And  myriad  shadows  ro&e  and  wanned  and  waned, 
And  flitting  figures,  visions  without  number, 
Took  shape  above  the  land  till  sight  was  pained, 
And  floated  round  me  till  ac  last  the  longed-for  goal  I 

gained. 

O  day  and  night !    O  day  and  night  J     With  rest  abound- 
ing, 

The  soothing  sinking  down  on  hard-earned  holy  rest, 
With  grateful  ease  that  grew  from  all  the  calm  surround- 
ing, 

A  langui  1,  dreamful  ease,  my  soul  became  possessed. 
The  hoarse  sea-wind  comes  soughing,  sighing,  singing, 
Its  constant  message  from  the  patient  waves, 
While  high  above  cathedral  bells  were  ringing, 
Or  falling  voices  chanted  hymns  of  praise, 
And  all  the  land  seemed  filled  with  peace  and  prorxvised 
length  of  days. 

*  *  #  *  * 

0  day  and  night  I  O  day  and  night  t  once,  all  unheeding, 
By  sun  and  summer  wind  with  tender  touch  caressed. 

1  wandered  where  the  strains,  the  sacred  strains,  were 

pleading, 

And,  kneeling  in  the  fane,  my  thoughts  to  prayer  ad- 
dressed. 

And  softly  rose  the  murmur'd  organ  mystery, 
And  swelled  around  the  colonnaded  aisle, 
Where  smiled  the  pictured  saints  of  holy  history 
On  prostrate  penitents  who  prayed  the  while: 
I  could  not  pray  there,  but  I  felt  that  God  Himself  might 
smile. 


34  IDEALA. 

O  day  and  night !    O  day  and  night !  while  I  was  kneel- 
ing, 
There  came  the  strangest  sense  of  some  loved  presence 

A  reawakening  rush  of  well-remembered  feeling 
Thrill'd  thro'  me,  held  me  still,  with  vague  expectant 

fear. 

Half  turn'd  from  me,  there  stood  beside  the  altar, 
Where  incense-clouds  nigh  veiled  him  from  my  sight, 
A  fair-haired  priest,  my  quickened  heart-beats  falter  I 
Or  is  he  priest,  or  is  he  alcoyte, 
Or  layman  devotee  who  prays  in  novice  robes  bedight  ? 

0  day  and  night  1    O  day  and  night !  whence  comes  this 

For  all  unreal  seem  day  and  night  and  life  and  death, 
And  all  unreal  the  hope  that  sets  my  senses  reeling, 
And  stills  my  pulse  an  instant,  checks  my  lab'ring  breath, 
Yet  louder  rolls  the  mighty  organ  thund/ring, 
And  downward  slopes  a  beam  of  light  divine, 
The  perfumed  clouds  are  cleft ;  he  looks  up  wond'rm.^— 
Looks  up — what  does  he  there  before  the  shrine  ? 
He  could  not  give  himself  to  God,  for  he  is  mine,  is  mine  ! 

O  day  and  night !    O  day  and  night  I  I  go  forth  trembling, 
He  did  not  meet  my  eyes,  he  never  saw  my  face, 
My  bosom  swells  with  joy  and  jealousy  resembling 
A  war  of  good  and  evil  waged  in  holy  place. 
No  longer  soft  the  day,  the  sun  in  splendor 
Pours  all  his  might  upon  this  green  incline; 

1  lie  and  watch  the  cirrus  clouds  surrender, 
Their  glowing  forms  to  one  hot  kiss  resign — 

Bow  could  he  give  himself  to  God  when  he  is  mine,  is 
mine? 

O  day  and  night  1  O  day  and  nightl  beneath  your  glory 

The  crimson  flood  of  life  itself  has  turned  to  fire  1 

The  rugged  brows  of  those  old  rocks,  storm-rent  and 

hoary, 

A.re  quivering  in  their  grim  surprise  at  my  desire, 
The  mother  earth,  throbbing  with  pain  and  pleasure, 
Would  sink  her  voices  for  the  languid  noon, 
But  light  airs  wake  a  reckless  maddening  measure, 
And  wavelets  dance  and  sparKle  to  the  tune, 
And  mock  the  mocking  malice  of  yon  day-dimm'd  gibbous 
tnoon. 


IDEALA.  35 

O  day  and  night  I  O  day  and  night !  a  fisher  maiden 

Is  wandering  up  the  path  to  where  unseen  I  lie; 

She  comes  with  some  light  spoil  from  off  the  shore  t<j- 

laden, 

And  softly  singing  of  the  sea  goes  slowly  by. 
And  slowly  rise  great  sun-tipped  white  cloud  masses, 
Sublimely  still  their  shadows  flit  and  flee : 
How  silently  the  work  of  nature  passes — 
The  roll  of  worlds,  the  growth  of  flower  and  tree  ! 
Angels  of  God  in  heaven!  give  him  to  me!  give  him  to  met 

0  day  and  night  I  O  day  and  night !  the  hours  rolling 
Bring  ev'ry  one  its  change,  its  song,  or  chant,  or  chime  : 
Now  solemnly  their  sounds  a  distant  death-knell  tolling, 
And  now  the  bells  above  beat  forth  the  flight  of  time. 

1  lie,  unconsciously  each  trifle  noting, 
The  far-off  sailors  toiling  on  the  quay. 

Or  o'er  the  sand  a  broad-wing'd  sea-bird  floating, 
Or  passing  hum  of  honey-laden'd  bee — 
Angels  of  God  in  heaven  !  give  him  to  me'!  give  him  to  me  t 

0  day  and  night !  O  day  and  night  I  the  scene  surround- 

ing 

Grows  dim  and  all  unreal  beneath  the  sunset  glow  ; 
And  all  the  heat  and  rage  pass  into  peace  abounding, 

1  moan,  I  fear  no  more,  but  wait,  while  still  tears  flow, 
The  warm  sweet  airs  scarce  move  the  flowerets  slender, 
A  pause  and  hush  have  settled  on  the  sea,   > 

A  bird  trills  forth  its  Jove  song  low  and  tender  : 
O  bird,  rejoice !  thy  love  and  thou  art  free — 
Angels  of  God  in  heaven  !  give  him  to  me  !  give  him  tome  I 


O  day  and  night  I  O  day  and  night !  ye  knew  it  ever  ! 
Ye  saw  it  written  in  the  world's  first  golden  prime  I 
And  smiled  your  giant  smile  at  all  my  rash  endeavor 
To  snatch  the  cup  unfili'd  from  out  the  hand  of  Time. 
He  comes,  O  day  and  night !    Spirits  attending, 
Swift  formless  messengers  my  ev'ry  sense  apprise  ! 
He  comes  !  the  bright  fair  head  o'er  some  old  book  low 

bending  ! 

Dear  Lord,  at  last !  his  eyes  have  met  my  eyes— 
A  gleam  of  light  goes  quivering  across  the  happy  skies  I 


O  day  and  night !  O  day  and  night !  Love  sits  between  us. 
Far  out  the  rising  tide  comes  sweeping  o'er  the  sand. 


58  IDE  ALA. 

The  murmurous  pine-trees  lend  their  purple  shade  to 

screen  us, 

And  breathe  their  fragrant  sighs  above  the  quiet  land. 
And,  like  a  sigh,  the  sunset  blaze  is  over, 
The  folding  gray  has  veiled  its  colors  bright ; 
While  swift  from  view  fade  out  the  gulls  that  hover, 
As  round  us  sinks  at  last,  on  pinions  light, 
The  dark  and  radiant  clarity  of  the  beautiful  still  night. 

O  day  and  night  1  O  day  and  night !  no  words  are  spoken. 
Such  pleasant  joy  profound  no  words  could  well  express, 
Hi-<  xvau'l'rmg  fingers  smooth  my  hair  in  silent  token, 
And  all  my  b^ing  answers  to  the  tender  mute  caress. 
My  head  is  resting  on  his  breast  for  pillow, 
And  as  by  music  moved  my  soul  is  thrill'd  ; 
Flow  on  and  clasp  the  land,  O  bursting  billow  I 
O  breezes,  tell  the  mountains  many  rill'd  ! 
Our  hearts  now  know  each  other,  and  our  hope  is  all  fuJ- 
fill'd. 

O  driy  and  night  I  O  day  and  night !  no  shadow  crosses 
This  long'd-for  solemn  hour  of  all-forgetful  bliss  ; 
No  chilling  thought,  or  stalking  dread  arising,  tosses 
A  poison'd  drop  of  bitterness  to  spoil  the  ling'ring  kiss  ; 
Mo  mem'ries  past  or  future  fears  assailing — 
As  soon  might  doubt  bedim  the  stars  that  shine  I 
Or  souls  released  rsach  Paradise  bewailing 
Tin-  «>ud  of  pain,  and  clemency  divine  : 
The  glorious  present  holds  us  ;  I  am  his  and  he  is  mine! 
***** 

O  day  and  night !  O  day  and  night !  and  was  it  madness? 
Lo  !  all  is  changing,  even  sky,  and  sea,  and  shore  ; 
The  heaving  water  ebbs  itself  away  in  sadness, 
The  waves  receding  sigh,  •'  Delight  returns  no  more  1" 
Far  down  the  East  the  dawn  is  dimly  burning, 
Its  first  chill  breath  has  shivered  thro'  my  frame, 
And  with  the  light  comes  cruel  Thought  returning, 
The  air  seems  full  of  voices  speaking  blame  ; 
Another  day  commences,  but  the  world  is  not  the  same  I 

O  day  and  night !  O  day  and  night  I  its  rushes  pass'd  us. 
We  stand  upon  the  brink  and  watch  the  strong  deep  tide, 
And  shrink  already  from  the  howls  that  soou  must  blast 

us. 
The  world  that  sins  uuchidden,  and  the  laws  that  would 

divide. 


IDEALA.  57 

«'  O  Love,  they  rest  in  peace  whom  ocean  covers  J" 
One  plunge,  one  clasp  supernal,  one  long  kiss  ! 
Then  downward,  like  those  old  Italian  lovers, 
Descend  forever  through  the  long  abyss. 
And  float  together,  happy,  all  eternity  like  this  ! 

The  charm  of  the  reader's  voice  had  held  us  spell-bound, 
and  the  poem  was  well  received  ;  but  after  the  usual  com- 
pliments there  was  a  pause,  and  then  Ideala  burst  out,  im- 
petuously : 

"  I  am  sick  of  those  old  Italian  lovers,"  she  said  ;  "  they 
float  into  everything.  Their  story  is  the  essence  with  which 
two-thirds  of  our  love  literature  is  flavored.  We  should 
never  have  received  them  in  society  ;  why  do  we  tolerate 
them  in  books  ?  I  like  my  company  to  be  respectable,  even 
there  ;  and  when  an  author  asks  me  to  admire  and  sym- 
pathize with  such  people  he  insults  me." 

"  They  must  be  brought  in,  though,  for  the  sake  of  con- 
trast," somebody  observed. 

"  They  should  be  kept  in  their  proper  place,  then,"  she 
answered.  "  You  may  choose  what  you  please  to  point  a 
moral,  but  for  pity's  sake  be  careful  about  what  you  use  to 
adorn  a  tale." 

"  Moral  or  no  moral,"  said  the  young  sculptor,  " 1  think 
a  new  poem  of  any  kind  a  thing  to  be  thankful  for." 

"  And  do  you  call  that  kind  of  thing  new  ?"  said  Ideala. 
*'  I  should  say  it  was  a  fine  compound  of  all  the  poems  of 
the  kind,  and  several  other  kinds,  that  have  ever  been 
written,  with  a  dash  of  the  peculiarly  refined  immorality 
of  our  own  times,  from  which  nothing  is  sacred,  thrown  in 
to  make  weight.  Such  writing, 

Like  a  new  disease,  unknown  to  men, 
Creeps,  no  precaution  used,  among  the  crowd, 

and  saps 

The  fealty  of  our  friends,  and  stirs  the  pulse 
With  devil's  leaps,  and  poisons  half  the  young. 

It  is  the  feeling  of  the  day  accurately  defined.    Xobody 
tf  for  love  and  peace  now.    The  cry   is  for  the  indul- 


$8  IDEALA. 

gence  of  some  fiery  passion  for  an  hour,  and  then  perdi- 
tion !— if  you  like— since  that  is  the  recognized  price  of  it  " 

"  Our  loves  are  more  intense  than  they  used  to  be,"  said 
the  sculptor,  sighing. 

"  Love  I"  Ideala  answered.  "  Oh,  do  not  desecrate  '  the 
eternal  God- word  love '!  There  is  little  enough  of  that  in 
the  business  that  goes  by  its  name  nowadays.  I  am  a  lady 
— I  can  not  use  the  right  word.  But  it  is  none  the  less  the 
thing  I  mean  because  it  calls  blasphemously  on  God  Al- 
mighty to  help  it  to  fulfill  itself." 

"Well,"  said  Charlie  Lloyd,  deprecatingly,  "I  didn't 
offer  this,  you  know,  as  an  admirable  specimen  of  what 
our  day  can  produce.  I  told  you  I  hadn't  read  it,  and  now 
that  I  have  I  don't  suppose  any  one  has  offered  it  to  the 
public  as  a  serious  expression  of  sentiment." 

"You  do  not  think  people  write  books  about  what  they 
really  feel?"  said  Ideala.  "I  believe  they  do  when  the 
feeling  is  shameful.  If  you  want  to  keep  a  secret,  publish 
the  exact  truth  in  a  book,  and  nobody  will  believe  a  word 
of  it.  I  think  people  who  publish  such  productions  should 
be  burned  on  a  pile  of  their  own  works." 

"  The  writer  is  young,  doubtless,"  I  said  apologetically. 
It  gives  one  a  shock  to  hear  a  woman  say  harsh  things. 

"  He  was  evidently  not  too  young  to  have  bad  thoughts," 
said  Claudia,  supporting  her  friend  ;  "  and  he  was  certainly 
old  enough  to  know  better. " 

"  He  1"  ejaculated  Ideala.  "  It  is  far  more  likely  to  be 
she.  Do  you  read  the  reviews  ?  You  will  find  that  all  the 
most  objectionable  books  are  written  by  women — and  con- 
demned by  men  who  lift  up  their  voices  now,  as  they  have 
done  from  time  immemorial,  and  insist  that  we  should  do 
as  they  say,  and  not  as  they  do." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  right,"  said  Charlie  Lloyd.  "So 
many  of  our  best  women — I  mean  the  women  who  are 
likely  to  make  most  impression  on  the  age — are  going  that 
"way  now." 

"  But  what  horrids  things  you  say,  Ideala,"  one  of  th< 


IDEAL  A.  5$ 

ladies  chimed  in,  "  and  you  make  everybody  else  say  hor- 
rid things.  That '  Passion  of  Delysle'  is  not  a  bit  worse 
than  Tennyson's  '  Fatima ' — and  there's  a  lot  more  in  it — 
that  part  about '  the  roll  of  worlds,'  you  know,  is  quite 
grand." 

0  I  always  liked  that  idea,"  Ideala  observed. 

"And — and" — the  lady  continued,  "  where  she  looks  at 
everything,  you  know.  She  was  very  properly  seeking  dis- 
traction, and  found  it  for  a  moment  in  the  contemplation 
of  nature,  and  that  softened  her  mood,  so  that  when  the  in~ 
evitable  rush  of  recollection  comes  and  forces  the  thought 
of  him  back  upon  her,  her  feeling  finds  expression  in  a 
prayer— instead  of— instead  of " 

'  'A  blasphemous  remonstrance,"  Ideala  put  in .  "  Oh,  I 
don't  deny  that  there  is  just  enough  to  be  said  in  favor  of 
all  these  things  to  make  them  sell— and  this  one  has  two 
unusual  points  of  interest.  It  opens  with  a  riddle,  and  the 
lady's  lover  is  a  priest,  which  gives  an  additional  zest  to  th* 
charm  of  wrongdoing,  a  aauce  piqaante  for  jaded  appe. 
tites." 

"Why  do  you  call  the  opening  verses  a  riddle  ?"sai& 
Charlie  Lloyd. 

"  Because  I  fancy  no  one  one  will  ever  guess  what  kin<$ 
of  a  place  it  was — 

This  mountain  island. 
This  saintly  shrine,  this  fort — 

I  forget  how  it  goes  on." 

"  Oh,  the  description  of  the  place  is  not  bad,"  Charlie 
answered,  after  reading  it  over  again  to  himself.  ".1% 
would  do  for  the  Mont  St.  Michael  in  Normandy." 

"  Well,  let  that  pass  then,"  said  Ideala  ;  "  also  the  dear 
familiar  '  subtle  scents  abroad  upon  the  night.T  But  wha^b 
does  she  mean  by  '  On  with  rush  and  ring '  ?"* 

"  She  means  the  train,  obviously." 

"  What  an  outlandish  periphrasis  1     And  how  about 

The  rugged  brows  of  those  old  rocks,  storm-rent  and  hoary, 
Are  quivering  in  their  grim  surprise"? 


60  IDE  ALA. 

"  That  is  a  '  pa-thetic  fallacy.'  She  is  not  speaking  of  the 
things  as  tney  were,  but  as  they  appeared  to  her  excited 
fancy.  She  chronicles  her  own  death,  though " 

"So  did  Moses,"  said  Ideala.  "If  you  really  want  to 
justify  '  The  Passion  of  Delysle,'  I  can  help  you.  You  see, 
she  was  dreadfully  badly  treated  by  her  friends,  poor  thing! 
and  her  marriage  after  all  was  no  marriage,  because  she 
loved  another  man  all  the  time  ;  and  your  husband  isn't 
properly  your  husband  if  you  don't  love  him,  love  being  the 
only  possible  sanctification— in  fact,  the  only  true  marriage. 
And  then  her  lover,  thinking  he  had  lust  her,  became  a 
priest,  and  vows  made  under  a  misapprehension  Jike  that 
can  not  be  binding — it  would  be  too  much  to  expect  us  to 
suffer  always  for  such  mistakes.  And  then  the  world— but 
we  all  know  how  oruel  the  world  is  !  And  appearances 
were  sadly  against  them,  poor  things  !  No  one  "would  ever 
have  believed  that  they  had  stayed  out  all  night  to  discuss 
their  religious  experiences.  Suicide  is  shocking,  of  course, 
"but  still,  when  people  are  driven  to  it  like  that,  we  can  only 
be  sorry  for  them,  and  hope  they  will  never  do  it  again  I " 
She  nestled  back  more  comfortably  on  her  coach,  and  then 
continued  in  an  altered  tone :  "  But  it  is  appalling  to  think 
of  the  quantity  of  machine  made  verses  like  those  that  are 
imposed  on  the  public  year  by  year,  verses  the  mere  result 
of  much  reading  and  writing,  without  a  scrap  of  inspira- 
tion in  them,  and  as  far  removed  from  even  schoolboy 
efforts  of  genius  as  an  oleograph  is  from  an  oil-painting. 
Poets  are  as  rare  now  as  prophets,  and  inspiration  has  left 
us  for  our  sins.  I  think  any  fairly  educated  one  of  us, 
with  a  tolerable  memory  and  the  habit  of  composition, 
could  write  that '  Passion  of  Delysle '  again  in  half  an  hour." 

"Oh,  could  they,  though  1 "  said  Ralph,  the  son  of  the 
house.  "I  dare  bet  anything  you  couldn't  do  ii  yourself 
in  twice  the  time." 

"  Dare  you?"  she  answered,  with  a  little  smile.  "  Well, 
to  adopt  your  elegant  phraseology,  Master  Ralph,  I  bet  I 
will  produce  the  same  story,  with  the  same  conclusion,  but 


IDEALA.  61 

a  different  moral,  in  an  hour — since  you  allow  me  twice 
the  time  I  named — if  I  may  be  permitted  to  write  it  in 
blank  verse,  that  is,  and,  of  course,  with  the  understand- 
ing that  what  I  write  is  not  intended  to  be  anything  but 
mere  versified  prose." 

"  Done  with  you  ! "  cried  Ralph. 

"Hush— h— hi"  his  mother  exclaimed  deprecatingly. 
"  Betting,  and  before  the  bishop,  too  !  " 

"  What  the  bishop  don't  know  will  do  him  no  harm, 
ma,"  said  the  youth,  in  a  stage-whisper.  "Sit  down, 
Ideala,  and  begin.  It's  ten  minutes  to  ten  now." 

The  bishop  slept  serenely;  conversation  flagged ;  and 
Ideala  wrote  steadily  for  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour  ; 
then  she  gathered  up  the  manuscript,  ros'e  from  the  table, 
and  returned  to  her  old  seat. 

"'The  Passion  of  Delysle'has  become 'The  Choice,'" 
she  said.  "  Will  you  read  it  for  rue,  Mr.  Lloyd?  I  think 
it  should  have  that  advantage,  at  least." 

Charlie  took  the  manuscript,  and  read  : 

Once  on  a  time,  not  very  long  gone  by, 

A  noble  lady  had  a  noble  choice. 

The  daughter  of  an  ancient  house  was  she, 

Beauty  and  weakh,  and  highest  rank  were  hers, 

But  love  was  not,  for  of  a  proud,  cold  race 

Her  people  were,  caring  for  naught  but  lands, 

Riches,  and  power  ;  holding  all  tender  thoughts 

As  weakly  folly,  only  fit  for  babes. 

The  lady  learnt  their  creed;  her  heart  seem'd  hard — 

She  thought  is  so;   and  when  the  moment  came 

To  choose  'twixt  love,  young  love,  and  pride  of  place, 

She  still'd  an  unwonted  feeling  that  would  rise, 

And  saying  calmly:  "  I  have  got  no  heart, 

And  lova  is  vain  1 "  she  chose  to  be  the  wife 

Of  sinful  age,  corruption,  and  untruth, 

Scorning  the  steadfast  love  of  one  who  yearn'd 

To  win  her  from  the  crooked  paths  she  trod, 

And  break  the  sordid  chains  that  bound  her  soul, 

And  sweep  the  defiling  dust  of  common  thoughts 

From  out  her  mind,  until  it  shone  at  last 

With  large  imaginings  of  God  and  good. 


62  IDE  ALA. 

She  chose;  no  more  they  met:  her  life  wag  pass'd 
In  constant  round  of  pomp  and  proud  display. 
But  when  he  went,  and  never  more  there  came 
The  love-sad  eyes  to  question  and  entreat, 
The  voice  of  music  praising  noble  deeds, 
The  graceful  presence  and  the  golden  hair, 
She  miss'd  the  boy;  but  scoff'd  at  first  and  said: 
"  One  misses  all  things,  common  pets  one  s.purn'd, 
Good  slaves  and  bad  alike  when  both  are  gone — 
A 'small  thing  makes  the  habit  of  a  life  I " 
But  days  wore  on,  and  adulation  palled. 
She  knew  not  what  she  lack'd,  nor  that  she  loath'd 
The  hollow  semblance,  the  dull  mockery, 
Which  she  had  gain'd  for  joy  by  choosing  rank, 
And  money's  worth,  instead  of  peace  and  love. 

Yet  ever  as  the  long  days  grew  to  months 

More  heavy  hung  the  time,  mo\ed  slower  by, 

And  all  things  troubled  her  and  gave  her  pain, 

And  morning,  noon,  and  night  the  thought  would  rise, 

And  grew  insistent  when  she  would  not  hear  : 

"  One  loved  me  !  out  of  all  this  crowd  but  one ! 

And  he  is  gone,  and  I  have  driven  him  forth  ! " 

Then  in  the  silent  solitude  of  night 

An  old  weird  story  that  she  once  had  heard 

Tormented  her  ;  a  story  speaking  much 

Of  a  rock-island  on  the  Norman  coast, 

A  mountain  peak  rising  from  barren  sand, 

Or  standing  sea-girt  when  the  tide  returns, 

And  beaten  by  the  winds  on  ev'ry  side, 

"With  wall'd-in  town,  and  castle  on  the  height, 

And  high  above  the  castle,  strangely  placed, 

A  gray  cathedral  with  its  summit  tipp'd 

By  a  gold  figure  of  St.  Michael  crown'd. 

With  burnished  wings  and  flashing  sword  that  shone 

A  beacon  in  the  sunset,  seen  for  miles, 

As  tho'  the  Archangel  floated  in  the  air. 

The  castle  and  the  church  a  sanctuary 
And  refuge  were,  to  which  men  often  fled 
For  rest  or  safety,  finding  what  they  sought. 
And  as  the  lady  thought  about  the  place, 
A  notion  came  that  she  would  like  to  kneel 
And  pray  for  peace  at  that  far  lonely  shrine. 
The  longing  grew  ;  she  rested  not  nor  slept. 
And  should  she  fly  and  leave  her  wretched  wealth? 


And  if  she  fled  she  never  could  return  ; 

Yet  if  she  stay'd  she  felt  that  she  should  die. 

So  go  or  stay,  meant  misery  for  her— 

But  misery  is  lessened  when  we  move. 

Yes,  she  would  go  1  and  then  she  laugh'd  to  think 

Of  the  wild  fury  of  her  harsh  old  lord 

When  he  should  wake  one  day  and  find  her  gone— 

Laugh*  d  1  the  rirst  time  for  long  and  weary  months. 

By  Mont  St.  Michael,  on  the  Norman  coast, 

A  restless  river,  changing  oft  its  course, 

Flows  sullenly  ;  and  racehorse- like  the  tide, 

Which,  going,  leaves  a  wilderness  of  sand, 

Comes  rushing  back,  a  foam-topp'd,  wat'ry  wall ; 

And  those  who,  wand'ring,  'scape  tha  quicksand's  grip 

Are  often  caught  and  drown'd  ere  help  can  come. 

But  fair  the  prospect  from  the  Mount  when  bright 

The  sunshine  falls  on  Avranches  far  away, 

A  white  town  straggling  o'er  a  verdant  hill ; 

And  on  the  tree-clad  count:  y  toward  the  west, 

On  apple-orchards,  and  the  fairy  bloom 

Of  feath'ry  tam'risk  bushes  on  the  shore, 

Whilst  high  above  in  silent  majesty 

Of  hue  and  form  the  floating  ciouds  support 

The  far-extending  vault  of  azure  sky. 

Such  was  the  shrine  the  lady  sought,  aud  there 

In  mute  appeal  for  what  she  lack'd  she  knelt, 

Not  knowing  what  she  lack'd  ;  but  finding  peace 

Steal  o'er  her  soul  there  as  she  faintly  heard 

The  slow  and  solemn  chanting  of  the  priests, 

The  mild  monotony  of  murmured  prayers, 

And  hush  of  pauses  when  she  seemed  to  feel 

The  heart  she  deem'd  so  hard  was  melting  fast, 

And  liste_n'd  to  a  voice  within  her  say— 

'•  Love  is  not  vain  !    Love  all  things  and  rejoice  !  * 

And  found  warm  tears  were  stealing  down  her  cheeks. 

The  mystery  ef  love,  of  love,  of  love, 

Of  hope,  of  joy,  of  life  itself  she  felt; 

The  crown  of  life,  which  she  had  sacrificed 

In  scornful  pride  for  lust  of  power  and  place. 

The  lady  bow'd  her  head,  and  o'er  her  swept 

A  wave  of  anguish  and  she  knew  despair. 

"  Could  I  but  see  him  once  again  !"  she  moan'd, 

"  See  him,  and  beg  forgiveness,  and  then  die!" 

Did  the  Archangel  Michael,  standing  there 


64  IDEALA. 

Upon  her  left,  in  shining  silver,  hear? 

Who  knows  ?  Her  prayer  was  answer'd  like  a  flash ; 

For  at  that  moment,  clear  and  sweet  o'er  all 

The  mingled  music  of  the  chanting  choir, 

There  rose  a  voice  that  thrill'd  her  inmost  soul : 

It  breathed  a  blessing;  utter'd  soft  a  prayer. 

No  need  to  look  ;  and  yet  she  look'd,  and  saw 

A  hooded  monk  before  the  altar  kneel, 

A  graceful  presence,  tho'  in  sordid  dress. 

And  as  she  gazed  the  cowl  slipp'd  back  and  show'd 

(But  dimly  thro'  the  incense-perfumed  cloud) 

A  pure,  pale  face,  a  golden  tonsured  head, 

And  blue  eyes  raised  to  heaven.    Then  the  truth 

Was  there  reveal'd  to  her  that  he  had  left 

The  world  to  watch  and  pray  for  such  as  she. 

Out  of  the  castled  gate  she  hurried  forth  ; 
What  matter'd  where  she  went,  to  east  or  west  ? 
What  matter'd  peasant's  warning  that  the  sand 
Was  shifting  ever,  and  the  rushing  tide 
Gave  them  no  quarter  whom  it  overtook  ? 
'Twas  death  she  courted,  and  with  heedless  step 
Onward  to  meet  it  swift  the  lady  fled. 
Death  is  so  beautif  i:l  at  such  a  time, 
When  all  the  land  in  summer  sunshine  lies, 
And  lapse  of  distant  waves  breaks  pleasantly 
The  silence  with  a  soothing  dreamy  sound, 
And  danger  seems  no  nearer  than  the  sky, 
He  tempts  us  from  afar  with  hope  of  rest. 
She  hurried  on  in  search  of  death,  nor  heard 
That  eager  footsteps  followed  where  she  went. 
The  voice  that  call'd  her  was  not  real,  she  thought, 
But  a  sweet  portion  of  a  strange  sweet  dream — 
For  now  the  terrible  anguish  quickly  pass'd, 
And  sense  of  peace  at  hand  was  all  she  felt. 
"O  stopl" 

Ah  I  that  was  real.     She  turn'd  and  saw, 
Nor  saw  a  moment  till  she  felt  his  grasp 
Strong  and  determined  on  her  rounded  arm. 
• '  Thou  shalt  not  die  1 "  he  cried.     « '  What  madness  this  ?  " 
"  Madness ! "  she  echoed  :  "  nay,  my  love,  'tis  bliss— 
The  first  my  life  has  known — to  stand  here  still 
With  thee  beside  me,  and  to  wait  for  death. 
I  know  my  heart  at  last,  but  all  too  late 
I  may  not  love  thee,  I  another's  wife  ; 
Thou  may'st  not  love  me,  thou  hast  wedded  heaven. 


IDEALA.  65 

We  can  not  be  together  in  this  world  ; 
I  can  not  live  alone  and  know  thee  here. 
And  thou  are  troubled  !  for  beneath  that  garb 
Thy  heart  beats  ever  hot  with  love  for  me  ; 
For  love  will  not  be  quell'd  by  monkish  vows. 
But  all  things  change  in  death  !  so  let  us  die 
Thus,  hand  in  hand,  and  so  together  pass, 
And  be  together  thro'  eternity  !  " 

There  was  a  struggle  in  the  young  monk's  breast ; 
He  would  not  meet  her  pleading  eyes  and  yield, 
But  gazing  up.  to  heaven  prayed  for  strength, 
Strength  to  resist,  and  guidance  how  to  act, 
For  death  like  that  with  her  was  luring— sweet— 
A  strong  temptation,  but  he  must  resist, 
And  strive  to  save  and  show  her  how  to  live. 
"  We  can  not  make  hereafter  for  ourselves," 
He  answered  softly  :  "all  that  we  CPU  do   • 
Is  so  to  live  that  we  shall  win  reward 
Of  praise,  and  peace,  and  happy  life  to  come. 
Thy  duty  lies  before  thee  ;  so  does  mine. 
Let  each  return,  and  toil  and  watch  and  pray. 
Knowing  each  other's  heart  is  fix'd  on  heaven, 
And  do  the  good  we  can  ;  not  seeking  death 
Nor  shunning  it,  but  living  pure  and  true, 
With  conscience  clear  to  meet  our  God  at  last, 
And  win  each  ocher  for  our  grf  at  reward." 
The  moving  music  of  his  words  sunk  deep ; 
Her  alter'd  heart  thrill' d  high  to  holy  thoughts. 
"  Be  though  my  guide,"  she  said.     "  My  duty  now 
Shall  bring  me  peace  ;  so  shall  I  toil  like  thee 
To  \vin  the  love  I  yearn  for  in  the  end." 

It  might  not  be.    The  treach'rous  working  sand 

Already  clutched  their  feet,  and  check'd  their  speed) 

And  dancing,  sparkling,  like  a  joyful  thing. 

A  glitt'rmg,  glassy  wall  of  foam  neck'd  wave 

Toward  them  glided  with  that  fatal  speed 

You  can  not  mark  because  it  is  so  swift. 

No  use  to  struggle  now  :  no  time  to  fly  1 

He  clasp'd  her  to  him  :  "  God  hath  will'd  it  thus. 

Courage,  my  sister  ! "  "  Is  this  death  ?  "  she  cried. 

"  Yes,  this  is  death."    "  It  is  not  death,  but  joy  1" 

And  as  she  spoke  the  spot  where  they  were  been 

Became  a  wat'ry  waste  of  battling  waves  : 

Whil  >  high  above  the  summer  shone  on — 

A  passing  sea-bird  hoarsely  shriek'd  along  I 


cs 

ATI  things  were  changed,  with  that  vast  change  which 

makes 
It  seem  as  tho'  naught  else  had  ever  been. 

"  Well,  done,  Ideala  !  "  said  Ralph,  patronizingly  :  "you 
certainly  have  a  memory,  and  are  quite  as  good  at  patch- 
work as  the  author  cf  '  Delysle.'  I  could  criticise  on  an- 
other count,  but  taking  into  consideration  time,  place, 
circumstances,  and  the  female  intellect,  I  refrain.  That 
is  the  generous  sort  cf  creature  1  am.  So,  without  ex- 
pressing my  own  opinion  further — except  to  remark  that, 
though  I  don't  think  much  of  either  of  them,  personally  I 
prefer  '  Delysle.'  The  other  is  whotesoiier,  doubtless,  for 
those  who  like  a  mild  diet.  Milk  and  water  doesn't  agree 
with  me.  But  I  put  it  to  the  vote.  Ladies  and  gentle- 
men, do  you  or  do  you  nol  consider  that  this  lady  has  won 
her  bet?" 

"Oh,  won  it,  most  decidedly  I "  we  all  agreed. 

"By  the  bye,  what  was  the  bet?"  I  asked. 

"My  pa's  gaiters  against  Ideala's  blue  stockings.  I  re- 
gret to  sav  that  circumstances  over  which  I  have  no  con- 
trol"— and  he  glanc?d  at  the  unconscious  bishop — "prevent 
the  immediate  payment  of  my  debt— unless,  indeed,  he 
has  a  second  pair ; "  and  he  left  the  room  hurredly,  as  if 
to  see. 

IT  a  did  not  come  back  to  us  that  evening,  but  I  believe  he 
w£r<  to  be  heard  of  later  at  the  sign  of  the  Billiard  and  Cue. 

"  Well,"  sal  sculptor,  returning  to  the  old 

point  or  departure,  "for  mv  own  part,  I  find  much  that  is 
elevating  Lu  modern  works." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Ideala  ;  "  I  find  much  that  raises  me  on 

"  But  even  that  eminence  would  enable  you  to  look  over 
people's  heads  and  beyond." 

"It  would,"  she  answered,  "if  hu  re  didn't 

•a  sense  of  security;  but,  as  it  is,  when  I  am  tirti- 
ly  set  up,  I  find  that  all  1  can  do  is  to  look  r.t  my  own 
and  tremble  lest  I  fall.  Modern  literature  stimulates ; 


IDEALA.  6? 

it  doesn't  nourish.  It  makes  you  feel  like  a  giant  for  a 
moment,  but  leaves  you  crushed  like  a  worm,  and  without 
faith,  without  love,  without  hope.  It  excites  you  pleasur- 
ably,  and  when  you  see  life  through  its  medium  you  never 
suspect  that  the  vision  is  distorted.  It  makes  you  think 
the  iconoclast  the  greatest  hero,  and  causes  you  to  feel  that 
you  share  his  glory  when  you  help  him  with  your  approval 
to  overthrow  all  the  images  you  ever  cherished  ;  but  when 
the  work  of  destruction  is  over,  and  you  look  about  you 
once  more  with  sober  eyes,  you  find  you  have  sacrificed  your 
all  for  nothing.  Your  false  guide  fails  you  when  you  want 
him  most.  He  robs  you,  and  leaves  you  hungry,  thirsty, 
and  alone  in  the  wilderness  to  which  he  has  beguiled  you. 
There  is  no  need  for  new  theories  of  life  and  religion  ;  all 
we  require  is  strength  and  courage  to  perfect  the  old  ones.* 
"What  the  mind  wants  is  food  it  can  grow  upon,  not  stimu- 
lants which  inflate  it  for  a  time  with  a  fancied  sense  of 
power  that  has  no  real  existence.  But  I  have  small  hope 
for  our  nation  when  I  tliink  of  the  sparkling  trash  that 
the  mind  of  the  multitude  daily  imbibes  and  craves  for.  I 
mean  our  novels.  What  a'fine  affectation  of  goodness  there 
is  in  most  of  them  !  And  what  a  perfect  moral  is  tacked 
onto  them  I — like  the  balayeuse  at  the  bottom  of  the  lady's 
dress  ;  but,  like  the  balayeuse,  it  is  only  meant  to  be  a  pro- 
tection and  a  finish,  and,  however  precious  it  may  be,  it 
suffers  from  contact  with  the  dirt,  and  sooner  or  later  has 
to  be  cut  cut  and  cast  aside,  soiled  and  useless.  Some 
doggerel  a  friend  of  mine  scribbled  on  one  book  in  particu- 
lar describes  dozens  of  popular  novels  exactly  : 

O  what  a  beautiful  history  ! 

Think  vvhai,  temptations  they  passed  I 
Each  one  more  cruelly  trying. 

More  tempting,  indeed,  than  the  last. 
And  what  a,  lessou  it  teaches  ; 

No  passion  from  evnrs  exempted — 

*  She  quite  changed  hsr  mind  upon  th'spubject  eventually,  and 
helrt  that  there  was  not  only  need  of  new  theories,  but  good  hope 
that  we  should  have  them. 


68  IDEALA. 

Whilst  admiring  the  moral  it  preaches, 
It  makes  you  quite  long  to  be  tempted. 

I  agree  with  those  that  tell  us  that  society  is  breaking  up, 
or  will  break  up  unless  something  is  done  at  once  to  stop 
the  dissolution.  We  have  no  high  ideals  of  anythiag. 
Marriage  itself  is  a  mere  commercial  treaty,  and  only  pro- 
fessional preachers  speak  of  it  in  other  terms— and  those 
young  people,  with  a  passion  for  each  other,  who  are  about 
to  be  united — a  passion  that  dies  the  death  inevitably  for 
want  of  knowledge,  and  wholesome  principle,  and  self- 
control  to  support  it.  Some  of  us  like  our  bargains  better 
than  others,  but  you  can  judge  of  the  estimation  in  which 
marriage  is  held  when  you  see  how  much  happiness  people 
generally  find  in  it.  If  men  and  women  were  kept  apart, 
and  made  to  live  purely  from  their  cradles,  they  would  still 
scarcely  be  fit  for  marriage  ;  yet  any  man  thinks  he  may 
marry,  and  never  c^res  to  be  the  nobler  or  the  better  for  it. 
And  when  you  see  that  this,  the  only  perfect  state,  the 
most  sacred  bond  of  union  between  man  and  woman,  is 
everywhere  lightly  considered,  don't  you  think  there  is 
reason  in  the  fear  that  we  are  falling  on  bad  times  ?  Oh, 
don't  quote  the  Romans  to  me,  and  the  inevitable.  We 
know  better  than  the  Romans,  and  could  do  better  if  we 
chose.  But  we  have  to  mourn  for  the  death  of  our  man- 
hood !  Where  is  our  manhood  ?  Where  are  our  men  ?  Is 
there  any  wonder  that  we  are  losing  what  is  best  in  life 
when  only  women  are  left  to  defend  it  ?  Believ^  m, 
degradation  of  marriage  is  the  -tune  to  which  (lie  whole 

fabric  of  society  is  going  to  pieces " 

"Eh,  what  I"  exclaimed  the  bishop,  waking  up  with  a 
.-tart—"  whole  fabric  of  society  going  to  pieces?  Nonsense! 
When  so  many  people  come  to  church.  And  then  look  at 
all  the  societies  at  work  for  the — for  the — ah— prevention 
of  everything.  Why.  I  belong  to  a  dozen  at  least,  myself: 
the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals;  and  the  Rational 
Dress  Reform,  for  doing  away  with  petticoats — no,  by  the 
bye,  it  is  my  wife  who  belongs  to  that.  But,  at  any  rate, 


IDEALA.  69 

everything  is  being  done  that  should  be  done,  and  you  talk 
nonsense,  toy  dear" — looking  at  Ideala  severely— "  because 
you  don't  know  anything  about  it." 

"  The  faults  we  are  hardest  on  in  others  are  those  we  are 
most  conscious  of  in  ourselves — perhaps  because  we  know 
how  easy  it  would  be  to  conquer  them,"  Ideala  observed 
vaguely. 

"  Oh,  come  now,  my  dear,"  said  the  bishop,  beaming 
round  on  all  of  us,  "  you  must  not  believe  what  you  hear 
about  society  being  in  such  a  bad  state.  I  know  idle  people 
sry  so,  and  it  is  very  wrong  of  them.  Why,  I  never  see 
anything  wrong." 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Ideala.  "  "We  are  all  on  our  best 
behavior  before  you." 

The  bishop  patted  his  apron  good-humoredly. 

"  Well,  now,  take  yourself,  for  example,"  he  said.  "  I 
am  sure  you  never  do  wrong — tell  stories,  you  know,  and 
that  kind  of  thing." 

"Haven't  I,  thougn !''  she  answered  mischievously. 
"  Not  thnt  it  was  much  us<>,  for  I  always  repented  and  con- 
fessed ;  and  now  I  have  abandoned  the  practice  to  the  best 
of  my  ability.  It  is  horrid  to  feel  you  don't  deserve  the 
confidence  that  is  placed  in  you,  bishop,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Ideala  !"  Claudia  protested. 

The  bishop  looked  puzzled. 

"  I  can  assure  you  I  have  suffered  agonies  of  remorse  be- 
cause, in  an  idle  moment,  I  deceived  my  cat — a  big,  com- 
fortable creature,  who  used  to  come  to  me  every  day  to  be 
fed,  and  preferred  to  eat  out  of  my  hand.  He  was  greedy, 
though,  and  snapped,  and  one  day  I  offered  him  a  piece  of 
preserved  ginger,  and  he  dashed  at  it  as  usual,  and  swal- 
lowed it  before  he  knew  what  it  was.  Then  he  just  looked 
at  me  and  walked  away.  He  trusted  me.  and  I  had  de- 
ceived him.  It  was  an  unpardonable  breach  of  confidence, 
and  I  have  always  felt  that  I  never  could  look  that  cat  in 
the  face  again." 

The  bishop  smiled  and  sighed  at  the  little  reminiscence. 


70  IDEALA. 

"  I  think  you  are  right,  though,  in  one  way,  Ideala,"  he 
presently  observed.  "The  powers  of  light  and  darkness 
are  certainly  having  a  hard  fight  for  it  in  our  day  ;  but  we 
have  every  reason  to  hope. 

Oh,  vet  we  trust  that,  somehow,  good 
Wilf  be  the  final  goal  of  ill." 

"  And,  granted  that  the  popular  literature  of  the  day  is 
corrupt,"  the  young  sculptor  put  in,  "  and  that  the  stand- 
ard of  society  is  being  yearly  lowered  by  it,  still  there  is 

"  But  there  is  so  little  of  it,"  said  Ideala  ;  "  I  mean  so 
little  that  elevates.  Most  of  the  subjects  chosen  are  not 
worth  painting  ;  and  what  profit  is  there  in  contemplating 
a  thing  that  is  neither  grand  nor  beautiful  in  itself,  nor 
suggestive,  by  association,  of  anything  that  is  grand  or 
beautiful  ?  The  pictures  one  generally  sees  are  not  calcu- 
lated to  suggest  anything  to  the  minds  that  need  sugges- 
tion most.  The  technical  part  may  be  good  and  gratifying 
to  those  who  understand  it,  but  that  is  the  mere  trade  of 
the  thing.  "We  prefer  to  see  it  well  done;  of  course,  but  if 
the  canvas  has  nothing  but  the  paint  to  recommend  it,  the 
artist  might  have  saved  himself  the  trouble  of  putting  it 
on,  for  all  the  good  it  does  or  the  pleasure  it  gives." 

"  Oh,  Ideala,  do  you  know  nothing  of  the  charm  of 
color?"  asked  a  lady  who  painted. 

"  I  do,"  said  Ideala,  "  but  I  may  be  supposed  to  have  en- 
joyed exceptional  advantages.  And  it  is  hardly  charm 
we  want  to  elevate  us.  There  will  always  be  enough ,  in  all 
conscience,  to  appeal  to  the  senses.  But  there  is  an  absence 
even  of  charm." 

"  Many  a  noble  thought  has  been  expressed  in  a  coat  of 
color,"  said  the  lady. 

"  I  know  it  has,"  Ideala  answered ;  "  and  all  best 
thoughts  give  pleasure.  I  have  been  so  thrilled  by  a  noble 
idea,  well  expressed,  that  I  could  do  nothing  but  sit  with 
closed  eyes  and  revel  in  the  joy  of  it.  But  if  such  an  ide» 


IDEALA.  71 

were  placed  before  you,  and  you  did  not  know  the  language 
in  which  it  was  written,  what  good  would  it  do  you  ?  An 
uneducated  person  seeing  a  picture  of  a  donkey  in  a  field 
sees, only  a  donkey  in  a  field,  however  well  it  may  be 
painted  ;  and  I  fancy  very  exceptional  ability  would  be  re- 
quired to  make  any  of  us  think  a  gray  donkey  sublime,  or 
believe  an  ordinary  green  field  to  be  one  of  the  Elysian." 

*  Talking  about  charm,"  the  sculptor  broke  in  enthu- 
siastically, "  I  suppose  you  haven't  seen  the  new  picture, 
'  Venus  Getting  Into  the  Bath  ? '  That  is  a  feast  of  color, 
and  realism,  if  you  like.  She  is  standing  beside  the  bath 
with  a  dreamy  look  on  her  face.  Her  lovely  eyes  are  fixed 
on  the  water.  One  arched  and  blue-veiaed  foot  is  slightly 
raided  as  if  the  touch  of  the  marble  chilled  her.  Her  limbs 
are  in  an  easy  attitude,  and  beautifully  modeled.  She  is 
represented  as  a  slight  young  girl,  and  the  figure  stands 
out  in  exquisite  nudity  from  a  background  of  Pompeian 
red,  and  the  dark  green  of  myrtles.  With  one  hand  she  is 
holding  aloft  the  masses  of  her  rich  brown  hair— the  atti- 
tude suggests  the  stretching  of  the  muscles  after  repose  ; 
with  the  other'' — bat  here  his  memory  failed  him.  "  What 
-'fling  with  her  other  hand  ?" 

'•  Scratching  herself  I '  slipped  from  Ideala,  involuntarily, 
to  hor  own  horror  and  the  delight  of  some.  But  she  re- 
covered herself  quickly,  and  turning  to  the  good  bishop, 
vras  looking  mildly  astonished  and  much  amused,  she 
sal  1 :  "There,  my  lord,  is  an  instance  of  the  corrupt  state 
of  r.ociety  in  our  own  clay.  You  see,  even  your  restraining 
presence  doesn't  always  keep  us  in  order.  I  hope,"  she 
whispered  tome,  " I'm  not  going  to  be  made  the  horrid 
example  to  prove  the  truth  of  all  my  theories." 

Soon  after  this  the  party  broke  up.  Claudia  returned  in 
her  wraps  to  say  good-night  to  the  bishop's  wife. 

"  Claudia !''  Ideaia  exclaimed,  "you  have  forgotten  that 
detectable  old  blue  shawl." 

Claudia  tried  to  stop  her  with  a  significant  gesture,  but 
in  vain.  Ideala  was  obtuse. 


13  IDEALA. 

"  Claudia  came  out  this  evening  in  the  most  extraordk 
nary  covering  I  ever  saw  a  lady  wear,"  she  said  to  the 
bishop's  wife.  "I  really  think  she  must  have  borrowed  it 
from  one  of  the  maids." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  must  mean  the  blue  shawl  I  lent  to  Lady 
Claudia  the  other  evening,"'  the  bishop's  wife  replied,  with  a 
hurt  smile. 

"Oh!"  said  Ideala,  disconcerted  for  a  moment.  "But, 
really,  bishopess,  you  deserve  to  be  upbraided.  You  should 
set  a  better  example,  and  not  provoke  us  to  scorn  on  the 
subject  of  your  shawls." 

Later  on,  when  I  was  alone  with  my  sister,  I  said  : 

"  Ideala  did  nothing  but  put  her  foot  in  it  this  evening. 
What  was  the  matter  with  her?  I  never  heard  her  speak  so 
strongly  before,  except  when  she  was  alone  with  us.  And  I 
don't  think  she  ought  to  discuss  such  subjects  with  such 
people;  it  is  hardly  delicate." 

Claudia  sighed  wearily. 

"  Who  knows  what  pain  is  at  the  bottom  of  it  all?"  she 
said.  "But  one  thing  always  puzzles  me.  Ideala  rails  at  evils 
that  never  hurt  her,  and  yet  she  speaks  of  marriage,  which 
has  been  her  bane,  as  if  it  were  a  holy  and  perfect  state, 
upon  which  it  is  a  privilege  to  enter." 

"Plenty  of  people  have  condemned  marriage  simply  be- 
sause  their  own  experience  of  it  has  been  unfortunate,"  I 
answered;  "  but  Ideala  is  above  that.  She  will  let  no  petty 
personal  mishap  prejudice  her  judgment  on  the  subject. 
She  sees  and  feels  the  possibility  of  infinite  happiness  in 
marriage  when  there  is  such  love  and  such  devotion  on  both 
sides  as  she  herself  could  have  brought  to  it;  and  she  un- 
derstands that  her  own  unhappy  experience  need  only  be 
exceptional." 

"  I  wish  it  were  I"  sighed  Claudia. 

Some  years  later,  Ideala  confessed  to  me  that  she  had 
written  "The  Passion  of  Delysle"  herself,  but  had  had  no 
idea  of  its  significance  until  she  heard  it  read  aloud  that 
night,  and  then,  as  she  elegantly  expressed  it,  she  could 


IDEALA.  78 

have  cut  her  throat  with  shame  and  mortification,  which  I 
consider  a  warning  to  young  ladies  not  to  trust  to  their 
poetical  inspirations,  for — if  the  shade  of  Shelley  will  par- 
don the  conclusion— alas  !  apparently,  they  know  not  what 
they  do  when  they  write  verses. 

'  I  can't  think  how  you  could  have  criticised  it  like  that, 
Ideala,"  I  said,  "  now  that  I  know  you  wrote  it." 

"  Neither  can  I,"  she  answered. 

"  You  ought  to  have-  confessed  you  had  written  it,  or  have 
said  nothing  about  it."  I  told  her,  frankly. 

"  Yes,"  she  assented.  "  Not  doing  so  was  a  kind  of  false- 
hood. But  neither  course  occurred  to  me."  And  then  she 
explained  :  "  I  never  see  the  meaning  of  what  I  write  till 
the  light  of  public  opinion  is  turned  upon  it,  or  some  cold 
critic  comes  and  damps  my  enthusiasm.  When  a  subject 
possesses  me,  and  shapes  itself  into  verse,  it  boils  in  my 
brain,  and  my  pen  is  the  only  way  of  escape  for  it,  the  one 
safety-valve  I  have  to  ease  the  pressure.  And  I  can't  judge 
of  its  merits  myself  for  long  enough  after  it  is  written, 
because  the  boiiiug  begins  again,  you  see,  whenever  I 
read  it,  and  then  there  is  such  a  steam  of  feeling  I  can  not 
see  to  think.  For  the  verses,  however  poor  they  appear 
to  you,  contain  for  me  the  whole  poem  as  I  have  it 
in  my  inner  consciousness.  It  is  beautiful  as  it  exists 
there,  but  the  power  of  expression  is  lacking.  If  only  I 
could  make  you  feel  it  as  I  do,  I  should  be  the  greatest  poet 
alive." 

It  was -a  trick  of  Ideala's  to  miss  the  true  import  of  a 
thing— often  an  act  of  her  own— until  ttie  occasion  had 
passed,  or  to  see  it  strangely  distorted,  as  she  frequently  did 
at  this  time— though  that  gradually  ceased  altogether  as 
she  grew  older ;  but  it  was  this  peculiarity,  so  strongly 
marked  in  her,  which  first  helped  me  to  comprehend  a  cu- 
rious trait  there  is  in  the  moral  nature  of  men  and  women 
while  it  is  still  in  process  of  development.  Many  men, 
Frenchmen  especially,  have  thought  the  trait  peculiar  to 
women-  La  Bruyere  declares  that  "  Women  have  no  prin- 


74  IDEALA. 

ciples  as  men  understand  the  word.  They  are  guided  by 
their  feelings,  and  have  full  faith  ia  their  guide.  Their  no- 
tions of  propriety  and  impropriety,  right  and  wrong,  they 
get  from  the  little  world  embraced  by  their  affections." 
And  Alphonse  Karr  says:  "Never  attempt  to  prove  any- 
thing to  a  woman :  she  believes  only  according  to  her  feel- 
ings. Endeavor  to  please  and  persuade:  she  may  yield  to 
the  person  who  reasons  with  her,  not  to  his  arguments  " — 
opinions,  however,  which  apply  to  men  as  often  as  not,  and 
only  to  the  young,  impressible,  passionate,  and  imperfectly 
educated  of  either  sex.  But  there  is  scarcely  a  generaliza- 
tion for  one  sex  which  does  not  apply  equally  to  the  other, 
so  perfectly  alike  in  nature  are  men  and  women.  The  differ- 
ence is  only  in  circumstance.  Reverse  the  position  of  the 
sexes,  require  men  to  be  modest  and  obedient,  and  they  will 
develop  every  woman's  weakness  in  a  generation.  If  a  man 
would  comprehend  a  woman,  let  him  consider  himself;  the 
woman  hus  the  same  joys,  sorrows,  hopes,  fears,  pleasures, 
and  passions — expressed  in  another  way,  that  is  all.  But, 
certainly,  for  a  long  time  Ideala's  guide  was  her  feeling 
about  a  thing.  I  have  often  said  to  her,  when  at  last  she 
decided  to  take  some  step  which  had  obviously  been  the  only 
course  open  to  her  from  the  first : 

"But,  Ideala,  why  have  you  hesitated  so  long?  You 
knew  it  was  right  to  begin  with/' 

"  Yes,"  she  would  answer.  "I  knew  it  was  right ;  but  I 
have  only  just  now  felt  that  it  was." 

She  had  never  thought  of  acting  on  the  mere  cold  knowl- 
edge. For  feeling  to  knowledge,  in  young  minds,  is  like  the 
match  t.o  a  fire  laid  in  a  grate  ;  knowledge  without  feeling 
being  as  cheerless  and  impotent  as  the  fire  unlighted. 


IDEALA.  76 

CHAPTER  XH. 

A  LITTLE  while  after  that  evening  at  the  palace  we  learned, 
to  our  dismay,  that  Ideala's  husband  had  taken  a  house  in 
one  of  the  rough  manufacturing  districts,  to  which  he  meant 
to  remove  immediately.  Business  was  the  pretext,  as  he  had 
money  in  some  great  iron  works  there  ;  but  I  think  the 
nearness  of  a  large  city,  where  a  man  of  his  stamp  would 
be  able  to  indulge  all  his  tastes  without  let  or  hindrance* 
had  something  to  do  with  the  change. 

Ideala  had  kept  up  very  well  while  she  was  among  us, 
but  soon  after  she  went  away  we  gathered  from  the  tone 
of  her  letters  that  there  was  a  change  in  her  which  alarmed 
us.  Her  health,  which  had  hitherto  been  splendid,  seemed 
to  be  giving  way,  and  it  was  evident  that  her  new  position 
did  not  please  her,  and  that,  even  after  she  had  been  there 
for  months,  she  continued  to  feel  herself  "  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  land."  The  people  were  uncongenial,  and  I  think 
it  likely  they  regarded  Ideala's  oddities  with  some  suspi- 
cion, and  did  not  take  to  her  as  we  had  done.  She  had  not 
that  extreme  youth  which  had  been  her  excuse  when  she 
came  to  us,  and  which,  somehow,  we  had  not  missed  when 
she  lost  it ;  and  her  habitual  reserve  on  all  matters  that  im- 
mediately concerned  herself  must  also  have  tended  to  make 
her  unpopular  with  people  whose  predominant  quality  was 
"an  eminent  curiosity." 

"They  are  far  above  books,"  Ideala  wrote  to  Claudia ; 
"  what  they  study  is  one  another,  and  in  the  pursuit  of  this 
branch  of  knowledge  they  are  indefatigable.  When  they 
can  get  nothing  out  of  me  about  myself,  they  question  me 
about  my  husband  and  friends,  and  it  is  in  vain  that  I 
answer  them  with  those  words  of  wisdom  (I  feel  sure  I  mis- 
quote them):  'All  that  is  mine  own  is  yours  till  the  end  of 
my  life ;  but  the  secret  of  my  friend  is  not  mine  own'— they 
persevere. 

"  Our  house  is  near  the  town.  Eighteen  big  chimneys 
darken  our  daylight  and  deluge  us  with  smuts  when  the 


76  IDEALS. 

wind  brings  the  smoke  our  way ;  and  besides  the  smoke,  we 
are  subject  to  unsavory  vapors  from  chemical  works  in  the 
other  direction,  so  that  when  the  wind  shifts  we  only  ex- 
change evils.    They  say  these  chemical  fumes  are  not  un- 
wholesome, and  quote  the  death-rate,  which  is  lower  than 
any  other  place  of  the  size  in  England.    In  fact    scarcely 
anybody  dies  here.    They  go  away  as  soon  as  they  begin  to 
feel  ill-perhaps   that  accounts  for  it.     But  those  horrid 
chemical  fumes  have  a  great  deal  to  answer  for.  They  have 
killed  the  trees  for  miles  around.    It  is  the  oaks  that  suffer 
principally.    The  tops  arfi  nipped  first,  and  they  gradually 
die  downward  till  the  whole  tree  is  decayed  all  through. 
The  absence  of  trees  makes  the  country  bleak  and  desolate 
and  I  cannot  help  thinking  the  unlovely  surroundings  affect 
us  all.    The  people  themselves  are  unlovely  in  thought,  and 
word,  and  deed  ;    but  I  have  found  a  good  deal  of   rough 
kindliness  among  them,  nevertheless.    They  did  mob  me 
on  one  occasion,  and  made  most  unkind  remarks  about  my 
nether  garments,  when  I  was  obliged  to  walk  through  the 
town   in  my  riding  habit ;  but,  as  a  rule,  the    mill-girls 
merely  observe  '  That's  a  lady,'  and  let  me  go  by  unmolested 
—unless  I  happen  to  be  carrying  flowers.    They  do  so  love 
flowers,  poor  things !  and  I  cannot  resist  their  pathetic  en- 
treaties when  they  beg  for  '  One,  missus,  on'y  on<i !'    Some 
of  my  lady  friends  are  not  let  off  so  easily  as  I  am.    The 
girls  chaff  them  unmercifully  about  their  dress  and  per- 
sonal peculiarities,   and  if  they  show  signs  of  annoyance 
they  call  them  names   that   are  not   to  be  repeated.    The 
mil!  girls  wear  bright-colored  gowns,  white  aprons,  and 
nothing  on  their  heads.  If  a  policeman  catches  them  at  any 
mischief,  they  either  clatter  off  in  their  clogs  with  shrieks 
of  laughter,  or  knock  him  down  and  kick  him  most  unmer- 
cifully. They  are  as  strong  as  men  and  as  beautiful,  some 
•  of  th'-'rri,  as  saints  ;  but  they  are  very  unsaint  likecreaturee, 
really— irresponsible,  and  with  little  orno  idtaof  right  and 
wrong.  On  •  scarcely  believes  that  they  have  souls— and  I 
am  always  surprised  to  find  that  anything  not  cruel  and 


IDEALA.  77 

coarse  can  survive  in  the  hearts  of  people,  begrimed,  body 
and  mind,  like  these,  by  their  hard  surroundings  ;  but  it  is 
there,  nevertheless — the  human  nature,  and  the  poetry,  and 
the  something  ready  to  thrill  to  better  things.  A  gentleman 
has  a  lovely  place  not  far  from  us,  where  the  trees  have 
been  spared  by  a  miracle.  Nightingales  seldom  wander  10 
far  north,  but  a  few  years  ago  a  stray  one  was  heard  there, 
and  the  wonder  and  the  beauty  of  its  voice  brought  hun- 
dreds from  the  mills  and  crowded  streets  to  hear  it  sing. 
Special  trains  were  run  from  the  neighboring  city  to  ac- 
commodate the  crowds  that  came  nightly  to  wait  in  the 
moonlight  and  listen ;  and  an  enterprising  trader  set  up  a 
stall,  and  sold  ginger  beer.  The  story  ends  there,  but  I  like 
it,  don't  you?  especially  the  ginger  beer  part  of  it.  It  was 
told  me  by  one  who  remembers  the  circumstance. 

"  My  greatest  pleasure  in  life  is  in  my  flowers  ;  they  are 
dearer  to  me  than  any  I  ever  had  before,  because  they  are 
all  so  delicate,  and  require  such  infinite  care  and  tender- 
ness to  keep  them  alive  in  this  uncongenial  climate.  I  have 
my  thrushes  also — two,  which  I  stole  from  a  nest  in  a  wood 
one  moonlight  night,  and  brought  up  by  hand  oa  bread  and 
milk  and  scraped  beef.  I  had  to  get  up  at  daylight,  and  feed 
them  every  hour  until  dark  ;  but  the  clergy  will  not  allow 
that  this  obligation  was  a  proper  excuse  for  staying  away 
from  church,  and  just  now  I  am  unhappy  in  the  feeling 
that  their  religion  must  be  inhuman.  But  my  thrushes  have 
well  repaid  the  trouble.  They  call  me  when  I  go  into  the 
room,  and  come  to  me  when  I  open  the  door  of  their  cage, 
and  perch  on  my  shoulder.  One  of  them,  Israfil,  sings  di- 
vinely. People  who  come  to  hear  him  see  only  a  little 
brown  bird  with  speckled  breast,  and  call  him  a  thrush  ; 
but  /  know  he  is  Israfil,  '  the  angel  of  song,  and  most  me- 
lodious of  God's  creatures' ;  and  he  thinks  that  I  have  wings. 
He  told  me  so. 

"I  wish  you  would  send  me  a  basket  of  snails  packed  up 
in  lettuce  leaves.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  can  find  none 
here,  and  I  cannot  hear  of  one  ever  having  been  seen  in  tho 


78  IDEALA. 

country.  But  please  do  not  send  them  unless  you  are  quite 
sure  you  can  spare  them." 

"  Ideala  is  trying  to  hide  herself  behind  these  pretty 
trivialties,"  Claudia  said.  "  I  always  suspect  that  there  is 
something  more  wrong  than  usual  when  she  adopts  this 
playful  tone  and  child-like  simplicity  of  taste." 

"It  must  be  trying  to  have  a  friend  who  believes  so  little 
in  one  as  you  do  in  Ideala,"  I  answered. 

"  Oh,  how  exasperating  you  are !  "  Claudia  exclaimed. 
"  You  know  what  I  mean  quite  well  enough." 

Later,  Ideala  wrote  : 

"You  are  anxious  about  my  health.  The  fact  is,  I  have 
developed  a  most  extraordinary  talent  for  taking  cold.  I 
went  by  tram  to  see  the  museum  in  the  city  the  other  day. 
I  took  off  my  cloak  while  I  was  there,  and  stayed  an  hour, 
and  when  I  came  away,  the  antiquary,  who  knew  I  was  a 
precious  specimen,  wrapped  me  up  carefully  himself. 
Nevertheless,  I  caught  cold.  Then  I  went  to  stay  with  some 
people  near  here  who  clamored  much  for  the  pleasure 
of  my  company.  They  live  in  a  palace  and  are  entertain- 
ing. The  lady's  papa  took  me  in  to  dinner  the  first  even- 
ing. He  asked  me  about  Major  Gorst,  and  wanted  to  know, 
in  an  impressive  tone  of  voice,  if  I  had  heard  that  he  was 
the  next  heir  but  one  to  the  Hearldom  of  Cathcourt. 

"  The  next  day  my  hostess  said  to  her  husband:  '  Dearest, 
do  let  me  ride  Oscar,'  and  he  replied:  '  No,  my  darling,  I 
can't  till  I  know  he's  safe.  I  must  get  some  one  to  try  him 
first  '—and  he  looked  at  me .  "  Perhaps  you  wouldn'tmind  ?' 

"  They  had  never  seen  me  on  horseback,  and  I  was  long- 
ing to  distinguish  myself.  I  did  distinguish  myself.  Oscar 
was  a  merry  horse,  but  one  never  knew  how  he  would  take 
things.  The  first  bridge  we  came  to— I  was  '  sitting  easy 
to  a  canter,'  with  my  foot  out  of  the  stirrup  and  my  leg 
over  the  third  crutch — a  bad  habit  I  learned  from  a  foreign 
friend—and  an  express  train  rushed  by.  Oscar  went  on 
abruptly,  but  I  remained.  The  next  difficulty  was  at  a 
brook.  We  ought  to  have  crossed  it  together ;  but  Oscai 


IDEALA.  79 

changed  his  mind  at  the  last  moment,  so  he  remained  and 
I  went  on.  And  after  that;  w?  came  to  cross-roads,  and  had 
a  difference  of  opinion  about  which  was  the  right  one. 
That  ended  in  our  coming  over  together,  which  made  me 
feel  solemn— disheartened,  in  fact— and  then  I  thought  we 
should  never  understand  each  other  and  be  friends,  so  I 
gave  him  up.  I  did  not  talk  much  about  riding  to  those 
people  after  that. 

"  But  I  wore  my  summer  habit  that  day,  and  of  course 
3  caught  cold.  And  when  that  was  nearly  well,  I  went 
down-stairs  to  be  civil  to  some  people  who  had  driven  a 
long  way  to  see  me.  The  drawing-room  was  damp  from 
disuse,  and  the  firs  had  only  just  been  lighted — and,  of 
course,  I  caught  cold.  When  that  was  better,  I  went  for  a 
drive.  The  wind  was  east,  and  the  carriage  was  open — 
and,  of  course,  I  caught  cold.  I  don't  know  how  it  may 
strike  you,  but  argument  seems  to  me  useless  when  a  person 
has  such  a  constitution." 

"  Can  you  read  between  the  lines  of  that  letter  ?  "  Claudia 
asked  me. 

'•  She  seems  to  be  dreadfully  don't  care,"  I  said. 

"Exactly.  She  is  more  reckless,  and  therefore  more 
miserable,  than  she  used  to  be.  I  wouldn't  live  with  him." 

"  Ideala  won't  shirk  her  duty  because  it  is  hard  and  un- 
palatable," I  answered. 

"  I  believe  she  likes  it ! "  Claudia  exclaimed  ;  and  then, 
smiling  at  her  own  inconsistency,  she  explained,  "  I  mean, 
if  she  really  is  miserable,  she  ought  to  speak  and  let  us  do 
something." 

"It  is  contrary  to  her  principles.  She  would  think  it 
wrong  to  disturb  your  mind  for  a  moment  because  her  own 
life  is  a  burden  to  her.  That  is  why  she  always  tries  to 
seem  happy,  and  is  cheerful  on  the  surface.  If  she  made 
lament,  we  should  suffer  in  sympathy,  and  all  the  more  be- 
cause there  is  so  very  little  we  could  do  to  help  her.  Silence 
is  best.  If  she  ever  gives  w^y,  she  will  not  be  able  to  bear 
it  again." 


80  IDEALA. 

"But  why  should  she  bear  it?"    Claudia   demanded. 

"  It  is  her  duty." 

'  I  know  she  thinks  so,  and  is  sacrificing  her  life  to  that 
principle.  But  will  you  kindly  tell  me  where  a  woman's 
duty  to  her  husband  ends  and  her  duty  to  herself  begins ?y 
I  suppose  you  will  allow  that  she  has  a  duty  to  herself?/ 
And  the  line  should  be  drawn  somewhere." 

Claudia's  mind  was  a  sort  of  boomerang  just  then, 
turning  inevitably  to  this  point  of  departure  ;  but  I  could 
make  no  suggestion  that  satisfied  her.  And  I  was  uaeasj1 
myself.  Ideala  refused  to  come  to  us,  and  had  made  som^ 
excuse  to  prevent  it  when  Claudia  offered  to  go  to  her. 
This  puzzled  me  ;  but  we  induced  her  at  last  to  promise  to 
meet  us  in  London  in  May.  It  was  A  pril  then,  and  wt> 
thought  if  she  could  be  persuaded  to  stay  two  months  of 
the  season  in  town  with  us,  and  go  with  us  afterward  to  a 
place  of  mine  in  the  north  which  she  loved,  she  would 
probably  recover  her  health  and  spirits. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

IN  the  mean  time,  however,  something  decisive  happened, 
as  we  afterward  learned . 

It  seems  that  after  they  left  our  neighborhood  Ideala 
had,  by  accident,  made  a  number  of  small  discoveries 
about  her  husband,  which  had  the  effect  of  destroying  any 
remnant  of  respect  she  may  still  have  felt  fov  him.  She 
found  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  examining  her  private 
papers  in  her  absence,  and  that  he  had  opened  her  letters 
and  resealed  them.  His  manner  to  her  was  unctuous,  as 
a  rule  ;  but  she  knew  he  lied  to  her  without  hesitation,  if 
it  suited  his  purpose— and  that  alone  would  have  been 
enough  to  destroy  her  liking  for  him,  for  it  is  not  in  the 
nature  of  such  a  woman  to  love  a  man  who  has  looked  her 
in  the  face  and  lied  to  her. 

These  things,  and  the  loneliness  he  brought  upon  her  by 
driving  from  her  the  few  people  with  whom  she  had  any 


IDEALA.  81 

intellectual  .fel'owship,  she  would  have  borne  in  the  old 
uncomplaining  way,  but  he  did  not  stop  there. 

One  day  she  drove  into  town  with  a  friend  who  got  out 
to  do  some  shopping.  Ideala  waited  in  the  carriage,  which 
had  stopped  opposite  a  public-house,  and  from  where  she 
sat  she  could  see  the  little  sitting-room  behind  the  bar,  and 
its  occupants.  They  were  her  husband  and  the  bar-maid, 
who  was  sitting  on  his  knee. 

Ideala  arranged  her  parasol  so  that  they  might  not  see 
her,  if  they  chanced  to  look  that  way,  and  calmly  resumed 
the  conversation  when  her  friend  returned. 

She  dined  alone  with  her  husband  that  evening,  and 
talked  as  usual,  telling  him  all  she  had  done  and  what  news 
there  was  in  the  paper,  as  she  always  did,  to  save  him  the 
trouble  of  reading  it.  In  return,  he  told  her  he  had  been 
at  the  iron- works  all  day,  only  leaving  them  in  time  to 
dress  for  dinner,  a  piece  of  news  she  received  with  a  still 
countenance,  and  her  soft  eyes  fixed  on  the  fire. 

She  was  standing  on  the  hearth  at  the  time,  and  as  he 
spoke  he  laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder  caressingly,  but 
eh  3  could  not  bear  it.  Her  powers  of  endurance  were  at  an 
end,  and  for  the  first  time  she  shrunk  from  him  openly. 

"  How  you  do  loathe  me,  Ideala ! "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  I  loathe  you  I"  she  answered. 

And  then,  in  a  sudden  burst  of  rage,  he  raised  his  hand 
and  struck  her. 

Ideala's  determination  to  be  faithful  to  what  she  con- 
ceived -to  be  her  duty  had  kept  her  quiet  hitherto,  but  now 
a  sense  of  personal  degradation  made  her  desperate,  and 
she  forgot  all  that.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  consult  some- 
body, to  speak  and  find  means  to  put  an  end  to  her  misery  ; 
but  I  was  not  there,  and  to  whom  should  she  go  for  advice  ? 
Her  impatience  brooked  no  delay.  She  must  see  some  one 
instantly.  She  thought  of  the  rector  of  the  parish,  but  felt 
he  would  not  do.  He  was  a  fine-looking,  well-mannered 
old  gentleman,  much  engaged  in  scientific  pursuits,  who 
always  spoke  of  the  Deity  as  if  he  were  on  intimate  terms 


82  IDEALA. 

with  Him,  and  had  probably  never  been  asked  to  adminis- 
ter any  but  the  most  formal  kind  of  spiritual  consolation 
in  his  life. 

The  training  and  experience  of  a  Roman  Catholic  priest, 
accustoming  them  as  it  does  to  deal  with  every  phase  of 
human  suffering  and  passion,  would  have  been  more  use- 
ful to  her  in  such  an  emergency,  but  she  knew  none  of  the 
priests  in  that  district,  and  did  not  think  of  going  to  them. 
But  while  she  was  considering  the  matter,  as  if  by  inspira- 
tion, she  remembered  something  an  acquaintance  had 
lately  written  to  her.  This  lady  was  a  person  for  whom, 
she  felt  much  respect,  and  that  doubtless  influenced  her 
decision  considerably.  The  lady  wrote  : 

"  It  must  be  convenient  to  be  only  twenty  minutes  by 
train  from  such  a  big  place.  I  suppose  you  go  over  for 
shopping,  etc.  ?  When  you  are  there  again,  I  wish  you 
would  go  and  see  my  cousin  Lorrimer.  He  is  adviser  in 
general  at  the  Great  Hospital— a  responsible  position  ;  and 
I  am  sure,  if  you  go,  he  will  be  glad  to  do  the  honors  of 
the  place,  which  is  most  interesting." 

Ideala  had  felt  from  the  first  that  she  would  rather  con- 
sult a  stranger  who  would  be  disinterested  and  unpreju- 
diced. This  gentleman's  name  promised  well  for  him, 
for  he  belonged  to  people  whose  integrity  was  well  known ; 
and  his  position  vouched  for  his  ability— and  also  for  his 
age  to  Ideala,  whose  imagination  had  pictured  a  learned 
old  gentleman,  bald,  spectacled,  benevolent,  full  of  knowl- 
edge of  the  world,  "  wise  saws  and  modern  instances." 
No  one,  she  thought,  could  be  better  suited  for  her  purpose ; 
and  accordingly,  next  day,  after  attending  to  her  house- 
hold duties,  she  went  by  an  early  train  t©  consult  him. 


IDEALA.  83 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  Great  Hospital  had  been  founded  by  an  eccentric 
old  gentleman  of  enormous  wealth,  for  an  entirely  original 
purpose.  He  observed  that  great  buildings  were  erected 
everywhere  to  receive  patients  suffering  from  all  imagina- 
ble bodily  ills,  chronic  mania,  of  course,  when  the  brain 
was  diseased,  being  one  of  them  ;  but  no  one  had  thought 
of  making  provision  for  such  troubles,  mental,  moral,  and 
religious,  as  affect  the  mind  ;  and  he  held  that  such  suffer- 
ing was  as  real,  and,  without  proper  treatment,  as  incur- 
able and  disastrous  as  any  form  of  physical  ailment.  He, 
therefore,  determined  to  found  a  hospital  for  these  un- 
happy ones,  which  should  contain  every  requisite  that 
Divine  revelation  had  suggested,  or  human  ingenuity  could 
devise,  for  the  promotion  of  peace  of  mind.  The  idea  had 
grown  out  of  some  great  mental  trouble  with  which  he 
himself  had  been  afflicted  in  early  life,  and  for  which  the 
world,  as  it  was,  could  offer  him  no  relief. 

The  first  thing  he  did  toward  the  carrying  out  of  his  plan 
•was  to  buy  a  site  for  his  hospital  near  a  growing  town,  on 
the  banks  of  a  big  river.  The  building  was  to  be  surrounded 
by  green  fields,  for  the  color  is  refreshing ;  and  within 
eight  of  a  great  volume  of  calmly  flowing  water,  the  silent 
power  of  which  is  solemn  and  tranquilizing  to  the  spirit ; 
and  human  society  was  to  be  within  easy  reach,  for  many 
people  find  it  beneficial.  As  soon  as  he  had  found  the  site, 
which  was  entirely  satisfactory,  he  set  about  maturing  his 
plan  for  the  building.  Such  a  scheme  could  not  be  carried 
out  in  a  moment,  and  he  spent  thirty  years  in  traveling  to 
study  human  nature,  and  architecture,  and  all  else  that 
should  help  to  bring  his  work  to  perfection.  At  the  end  of 
thirty  years  he  had  finished  a  plan  for  the  building  to  his 
own  entire  satisfaction  ;  but  Mr.  Ruskin  had  been  growing 
up  in  the  mean  time,  and  had  begun  to  write,  and  the 
founder,  happening  to  come  across  his  works  by  accident 
one  day,  discovered  his  own  ideas  to  be  wrong  from  be- 


84  ILbALA. 

ginning  to  end.    However,  as  it  was  the  truth  he  was  aim- 
ing at,  and  not  a  justification  of  himself,  he  calmly  burned 
his  plans,  put  his  fingers  in  his  ears,  figuratively  speaking, 
that  he  might  not  hear  the  rest  of  the  world  bray,  and  for 
ten  years  more  devoted  himself  to  the  study  of  Mr.  Ruskin. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  he  knew  something  about  pro  por- 
tion, about  masses  and  intervals  of  light  and  shade;  about 
the  grandeur  and  sublimity  of  size,  and  the  grace  and 
beauty  of  ornament;  about  depth  and  harmony  of  color, 
and  all  the  other  wonders  that  make  one  sick  with  longing 
to  behold  them;  and  when  he  had  mastered  all  this,  he  de- 
termined to  begin  at  the  very  beginning,  that  is  to  say,  with 
the  walls  that  were  to  inclose  his  vast  experiment.    Every- 
thing was  to  be  real,  everything  was  to  be  solid,  everything 
had  to  be  endowed  with  a  power  of  expression  that  could 
not  fail  of  its  effect.  And  as  soon  as  he  felt  he  might  safely 
begin,  he  hastened  away  to  inspect  the  long-neglected  site 
for  his  wonderful  building.   But  here  an  unexpected  check 
awaited  him.    While  he  himself  had  been  so  hard  at  work, 
his  future  neighbors  had  not  been  idle.    The  town  had 
grown  to  a  city;  the  river's  banks  were  crowded  with 
wharves  and  human  habitations;  the  river  itself  cradled  a 
fleet  on  its  bosom;  its  waters,  once  so  sublimely  clear  and 
still,  were  turbid  and  yellow,  befouled  by  the  city  sewers, 
and  useful  only,  and  all  that  remained  to  remind  him  of 
what  had  once  been  were  a  fe%v  acres  of  weeds  inclosed  by 
an  iron  railing— an  eye-sore  to  the  inhabitants  of  that  re- 
gion, as  the  corporation  told  him,  with  a  polite  hope  that  he 
would  either  build  on  it  soon  or  leave  it  alone,  which  was 
their  diplomatic  way  of  requesting  him  to  hand  the  lot 
over  to  themselves.    And  this  he  might  have  done  had  they 
said,  ' '  Please  " ;  but  when  he  found  the  young  city  so  ig- 
norant, he  thought  it  his  duty  to  teach  it  manners,  so  he 
took  a  year  or  two  more  to  consider  the  matter.    Then  he 
perceived  that  if  he  built  hid  house  on  the  site  as  it  was 
now,  he  should  do  even  more  good  than  he  had  intended, 
for  the  constant  contemplation  of  such  a  stately  pile  would 


IDEALA.  85 

help  to  elevate  the  citizens  outside  the  building,  while  those 
within  might  find  comfort  in  seeing  themselves  surrounded 
by  even  greater  misery  than  their  own. 

And  so  the  building  rose  and  grew  to  perfection,  and 
they  found,  after  all,  that  no  better  site  could  have  been 
chosen  for  it;  for  from  every  side,  as  you  approached  it,  it 
was  seen  to  advantage,  and  the  majesty  and  power  of  it 
were  made  manifest.  Outside,  the  design  was  so  evident 
in  its  grandeur  that  the  mind  was  not  wearied  and  per- 
plexed by  an  effort  to  understand;  it  was  simply  elevated 
to  a  state  of  enjoyment  bordering  on  exaltation  -  exaltation 
without  excitement,  and  near  akin  to  peace.  And  the  in- 
terior of  the  building,  as  you  entered  it,  maintained  this 
first  impression.  Such  ornament  as  there  was  touched  you, 
as  the  clouds  do,  with  a  sense  of  suitability  that  left  nothing 
to  be  desired.  Art  was  so  perfectly  hidden  that  there 
seemed  to  have  been  no  striving  for  effect  in  decoration  or 
construction;  it  looked  like  a  work  of  Nature,  accomplished 
without  effort,  and  beautiful  without  design  ;  and  the  mind 
brought  under  its  influence,  and  left  free  of  conjecture,  was 
gently  compelled  to  revel  in  the  peace  which  harmonious 
surr  landings  insensibly  produce.  Disturbing  thoughts  van- 
ished as  being  too  common  and  mean,  too  human,  for  such 
a  place,  and  the  spirit  was  soothed  with  a  sense  of  repose — 
of  sensuous  restf ulness  really,  for  the  pleasure,  as  intended, 
affected  the  senses  more  than  the  intellect,  which  could 
here  make  holiday.  Work-wearied  brains  were  thus  eased 
from  pressure,  and  minds  a  prey  to  doubts  and  other  dis- 
turbing thoughts  which  impaired  their  strength,  if  they  did 
not  render  them  useless,  were  at  once  relieved.  And  this 
was  the  beginning  of  the  treatment  which  was  afterward 
continued  in  other  parts  of  the  building,  and  by  other 
means,  until  the  cure  was  complete — arrangements  being 
made  for  the  removal  of  cases  that  proved  to  be  hopeless 
to  those  older  establishments  which  have  long  existed  at 
the  expense  of  the  country  or  as  the  outcomes  of  private 
enterprise. 


86  IDEALA. 

Of  course,  the  staff  of  such  a  place  had  to  be  formed  of 
xneto  of  a  high  order.  Some  of  these  had  been  patients 
themselves,  and  had  been  chosen  on  that  account,  it  being 
thought  that  those  who  had  suffered  from  certain  ills  would 
be  apt  to  detect  the  symptoms  in  others,  and  able  to  devise 
remedies  for  them,  which  proved  to  be  the  case.  The  es- 
tablishment was  munificently  endowed  and  liberally  sup- 
ported, and  the  master,  as  he  was  reverently  called,  lived 
just  long  enough  to  see  that  it  was  a  success. 

He  had  not  thought  of  extending  the  charity  to  women, 
being  under  the  impression  that  no  such  provision  was  ne- 
cessary for  them.  He  acknowledged  that  they  had  a  large 
ehare  of  physical  suffering  to  endure,  but  asserted  that 
Nature,  to  preserve  her  balance,  must  have  arranged  their 
minds  so  as  to  render  them  incapable  of  suffering  in  any 
other  way.  Sentimentality,  hysteria  and  silliness,  he  said, 
were  at  the  bottom  of  all  their  mental  troubles,  which  did 
not,  therefore,  merit  serious  attention. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

BUT  of  all  this  Ideala  knew  little  or  nothing  when  she 
went  there,  except  that  the  Great  Hospital  existed  for  some 
learned  purpose.  She  felt  the  power  of  the  place,  how- 
ever, preoccupied  as  she  was,  and  stopped  involuntarily 
when  she  saw  the  building,  ceasing  for  a  moment  to  be 
conscious  of  anything  but  the  awe  and  admiration  it  in- 
spired. Then  she  passed  up  the  broad  steps,  beneath  the 
massive  pillars  of  the  portico,  and  entered  the  hall.  A 
man-servant  took  her  card  to  Mr.  Lorrimer,  and,  returning 
presently,  requested  her  to  follow  him.  They  left  the  great 
hall  by  a  flight  of  low  steps  at  the  end  of  it,  and,  turning 
to  the  right,  passed  through  glass  doors  into  quite  another 
part  of  the  building.  A  long,  dimly  lighted  gallery  led 
away  into  the  distance.  A  few  doors  opened  on  to  it,  and 
at  one  of  these  the  servant  stopped  and  knocked.  A  tall 
gentleman  opened  the  door  himself,  and,  begging  Ideala  to 


IDEALA.  dT 

enter,  bid  her  to  be  seated  at  a  writing-table  wmcn  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  himself  took  the  chair  in 
front  of  it,  and  looked  at  Ideala's  card  which  lay  before 
him.  Another  gentleman,  whom  Lorriinet  introduced  as 
"  My  brother  Julian,"  lounged  on  a  high-backed  chair  at 
the  other  side  of  the  table.  The  room  was  a  good  size,  but 
so  crowded  with  things  that  there  was  scarcely  space  to 
turn  round.  The  light  fell  full  upon  Lorrimer  as  he  sat 
facing  the  window,  and  Ideala  saw  a  fair  man  of  about 
thirty,  not  at  all  the  sort  of  man  she  had  imagined,  and 
quite  impossible  for  her  purpose. 

An  awkward  pause  followed  her  entrance.  She  was  un- 
abie  to  tell  him  the  real  reason  of  her  visit,  and  at  a  loss  to 
invent  a  fictitious  one. 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  know  in  the  'least  who  I  am,"  she 
said,  seeing  that  he  glanced  at  her  card  again,  and  then  she 
explained,  telling  him  what  his  cousin  had  written  to  her. 

"  And  would  you  like  to  see  the  hospital  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Please." 

Ho  rose,  took  down  a  bunch  of  keys,  and  requested  her 
to  follow  him.  She  felt  no  interest  in  the  place,  and  knew 
it  was  a  bore  to  him  to  show  it  to  her  ;  but  the  thing  had 
to  be  dona.  He  led  her  through  halls  and  lecture-rooms, 
places  of  recreation  and  places  for  work ;  he  showed  her 
picture-galleries,  statuary,  the  library  and  a  museum,  and 
told  her  the  plan  of  it  all  clearly,  like  one  reciting  a  lesson, 
and  indifferently,  like  one  performing  a  task  that  must  be 
got  through  somehow,  but  making  ii  all  most  interesting, 
nevertheless. 

Ideala  began  to  be  taken  out  of  herself. 

"  What  a  delightful  place  I"  she  said  when  they  came  to 
the  library.  "And  there  is  a  whole  row  of  books  I  want 
to  consult.  How  I  should  like  to  come  and  read  them." 

"  Oh,  pray  do,"  he  answered,  "  whenever  you  like. 
Ladies  frequently  do  so.  You  have  only  to  write  and  tell 
me  \vhen  you  wish  to  come,  and  I  will  see  that  you  ara 
prcper'y  attended  to." 


88  IDEALA. 

"Thank  you,"  Ideala  rejoined.  "  It  is  just  the  very 
thing  for  me,  for  I  am  writing  a  little  book,  and  cannot  get 
on  till  I  have  consulted  some  authorities  on  the  subject." 

In  the  museum  they  stopped  to  look  at  a  mummy. 

"  Oh,  happy  mummy  !"  burst  from  Ideala,  involuntarily. 

"  Why?"  asked  Lorrimer,  aroused  from  his  apathy. 

41  It  has  done  with  it  all,  you  know,"  she  answered. 

Then  he  turned  and  looked  at  her,  and  she  saw  that  he 
was  something  more  than  cold,  pale-faced,  and  indifferent, 
which  had  been  her  first  idea  of  him.  His  eyes  were  large, 
dark  gray,  and  penetrating.  She  would  have  called  his 
face  fine,  rather  than  handsome  ;  but  the  upper  part  was 
certainly  beautiful,  in  spite  of  some  hard  lines  on  it.  There 
was  something  in  the  expression,  more  than  in  the  forma- 
tion, of  the  mouth  and  chin,  however,  that  did  not  satisfy. 
His  head  and  throat  were  splendid  ;  the  former  narrowed 
a  little  at  the  back,  but  the  forehead  made  up  for  the  defect 
which  was  not  striking.  He  made  Ideala  think  of  Tito 
Melema  and  of  Bayard. 

That  remark  of  hers  having  broken  the  ice,  they  began 
to  talk  like  human  beings  with  something  in  common. 
But  Ideala's  mood  was  not  calculated  to  produce  a  good 
impression.  The  failure  of  her  enterprise  brought  on  a  fit 
of  recklessness  such  as  we  understood,  and  she  said  some 
things  which  must  have  made  a  stranger  think  her  peculiar. 
Lorrimer  had  begun  to  be  amused  before  they  returned  to  the 
great  entrance-hall.  Once  or  twice  he  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"What  sort  of  a  person  are  you,  I  wonder?"  he  was 
thinking. 

"  I  was  dying  of  dullness,"  she  said,  telling  him  about  the 
place  she  came  from,  '•  and  so  I  came  to  see  you." 

He  left  her  for  a  moment,  but  presently  returned  with 
his  brother. 

"  You  had  better  come  and  have  some  luncheon  before 
you  go  back,"  he  said. 

And  she  went. 

As  they  left  the  building,  Lorrimer  asked  her  : 


IDEALA.  99 

w  Where  on  earth  did  my  cousin  meet  you  ?"  with  the 
slightest  possible  emphasis. 

Ideala  understood  him,  and  laughed. 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  don't  know  who  introduced  her," 
she  answered,  standing  on  her  dignity,  nevertheless.  "  I 
can't  remember." 

They  went  to  the  refreshment-room  at  the  station.  It 
was  crowded,  but  they  managed  to  get  a  table  to  them- 
selves. There  was  a  vacant  seat  at  it,  and  an  old  gentleman 
begged  to  be  allowed  to  occupy  it,  as  there  was  no  other  in 
the  room.  The  three  chatted  while  they  waited,  each 
hiding  him  or  her  self  beneath  the  light  froth  of  easy  con- 
versation ;  and  people,  not  accustomed  to  look  on  the  sur- 
face for  signs  of  what  is  working  beneath,  would  have 
thought  them  merry  enough.  As  she  began  to  know  her 
companions  better,  Ideala  was  more  and  more  drawn  to 
Lorrimer.  His  brother,  who  was  a  dark  man,  and  very 
different  in  character,  did  not  attract  her. 

The  old  gentleman,  meanwhile,  was  absorbed  in  his 
newspaper,  and  he  marked  his  enjoyment  of  it  by  inhaling 
his  breath  and  exhaling  it  again  in  that  particular  way 
which  is  called  "  blowing  like  a  porpoise." 

Lorrimer,  by  an  intelligent  glance,  expressed  what  he 
thought  of  the  peculiarity  to  Ideala,  who  remarked  : 

"  It  is  the  next  gale  developing  dangerous  energy  on  its 
way  to  the  North  British  and  Norwegian  coasts." 

The  Jaugh  that  followed  caused  the  old  gentleman  to 
fold  up  his  paper  and  look  benignly  at  the  young  people 
over  his  pince-nez. 

It  was  early  in  the  season,  and  pease  were  a  rare  and 
forced  vegetable.  A  small  dish  of  them  was  brought,  and 
handed  to  the  dangerous  gale,  who  absently  took  them  all. 

"  You  have  taken  all  the  pease,  bir  :  allow  me  to  give 
you  all  the  pepper,"  said  Lorrimer,  dexterously  suiting  the 
action  to  the  word. 

The  dangerous  gale,  though  disconcerted  at  first,  was 
finally  moved  to  mirth. 


90  IDEALA. 

"Ah,  young  people.,  young  people!''  ho  said,  and  sighed 
— and  being  a  rnerry  and  wise  old  gentleman,  he  found 
pleasure  in  their  pleasure,  and  entered  into  their  mood, 
little  suspecting  that  Black  Care  was  one  of  the  party,  or 
that  a  black  bruise  which  would  have  aroused  all  the  pity 
and  indignation  of  his  honest  old  heart,  had  he  seen  it.  was 
almost  under  his  eyes. 

And  they  all  loved  him. 

Presently  he  rose  to  go  ;  but  before  he  departed,  he  ob- 
served, looking  kindly  at  Ideala  and  Lorrimer  : 

"  You're  a  handsome  pair,  my  dears.  Let  me  congratu- 
late you  ;  and  may  your  children  have  the  mother's  sweet- 
ness and  the  father's  strength,  and  may  the  love  you  hr.vo 
for  each  other  last  forever— there's  nothing  like  it.  Thank 
God  for  it,  and  remember  Him  always— and  keep  your- 
selves unspotted  from  the  v/orld." 

And  so  saying,  he  went  his  way  in  peace. 

"  Dear,  embarrassing  old  man!"  said  Lorrimer,  regret- 
fully. '<  I  wish  I  hadn't  spilled  the  pepper  on  his  plate." 

"  Is  there  a  chance  for  Lorrimer?"  his  brother  asked. 

But  Ideala  only  stared  at  him.  There  was  something  in 
his  tone  that  made  her  feel  ill  at  ease,  and  brought  back  the 
recollection  of  her  misery  in  a  moment.  Then  all  at  once 
she  became  depressed,  and  both  the  young  men  noticed  it. 

"  I'm  afraid  you're  rather  down  about  something,"  Julian 
said.  "  You'd  better  tell  us  what  it  is.  Perhaps  we  could 
cheer  you  up.  And  I'm  a  lawyer,  you  know.  I  might  be 
able  to  help  you." 

Lorrimer  was  looking  at  her,  and  seemed  to  wait  for  her 
to  speak;  but  she  only  showed  by  a  change  of  expression 
that  the  fact  of  his  brother  being  a  lawyer  possessed  a 
special  interest  for  her. 

"If  you  will  trust  us,"  he  said  at  last,  "  perhaps  we  can 
help  you." 

" I  wish  I  could,"  she  answered  wistfully;  "I  came  to 
tell  you." 

"This  sounds  serious,"  Ju',iun  said  lightly.     "You  will 


IDEALA.  91 

have  to  begin  at  the  beginning,  you  know.  Come,  Lorrl- 
mer,  we'll  go  down  the  river.  And,"  to  Ideala,  "you 
might  tell  us  all  about  it  on  the  way,  you  know." 

"Yes,  come,"  said  Lorrimer. 

Ideala  rose  to  accompany  them  without  a  thought.  It 
all  came  about  so  easily  that  no  question  of  propriety  sug- 
gested itself — and  if  any  had  occurred  to  her,  she  would 
probably  have  considered  it  an  insult  to  these  gentlemen 
to  suppose  they  would  allo\v  her  to  put  herself  in  a  ques- 
tionable position  ;  and  when  Julian  lighted  a  cigarette 
without  asking  her  permission,  she  was  surprised. 

On  the  way  to  the  river,  Ideala's  spirits  rose  again,  and 
they  all  talked  lightly,  making  a  jest  of  everything  ;  but 
while  they  were  waiting  for  a  boat,  Julian  took  up  a  bunch 
of  charms  that  were  attached  to  Ideala's  watch-chain,  and 
began  to  examine  them  coolly,  and  the  unwonted  famil- 
iarity startled  her.  With  a  sudden  revulsion  of  fading  she 
turned  to  Lorrimer.  She  was  annoyed  by  the  slight  in- 
dignity, and  also  a  little  frightened.  Whatever  Lorrimer 
may  have  thought  of  her  before,  he  understood  her  look 
now,  an  1  his  whole  manner  changed. 

Julian  left  them  for  a  moment. 

"lam  so  ashamed  of  myself,"  Ideala  said.  "I  have 
made  some  dreadful  mistake.  I  have  done  something 
wrong." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  you,"  he  answered  gravely— and 
then,  to  his  brother,  who  had  returned — "  You  can  go  on, 
if  youlike.  I  am  going  back." 

"  Oh,  we  can't  go  on  without  you,"  Ideala  interposed; 
"  and  I  would  rather  go  back  too." 

They  began  to  retrace  their  steps,  and  Lorrimer,  as  they 
walked,  managed,  with  a  few  adroit  questions,  to  learn 
from  Ideala  that  the  trouble  had  something  to  do  with  her 
husband. 

"  Regy  Beaumont  is  coming  to  me  this  afternoon,"  he 
said  to  his  brother.  •'  Would  you  mind  being  there  to  re- 
ceive him?" 


92  IDEALA. 

They  exchanged  glancfs,  and  Julian  took  his  leave. 

"  Now  tell  me,"  Lorrimer  said  to  Ideala. 

But  an  unconquerable  fit  of  shyness  came  over  her  the 
moment  they  were  left  alone  together. 

'•  I  can  not  tell  you,"  she  answered.  "  It  is  too  dreadful 
to  speak  of." 

"  Your  husband  has  done  you  some  great  wrong?"  he 
said. 

"Yes. 

"  Something  for  which  you  can  get  legal  redress?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  that  made  you  desperate  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  what  did  you  do  ?  " 

He  put  the  question  abruptly,  startling  Ideala,  as  he  had 
intended. 

"I?    Oh,  I— did  nothing,"  she  stammered. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  My  ideal  of  marriage  is  a  high  one,"  he  said  at  last, 
"  and  I  should  be  very  hard  on  any  shortcomings  of  that 
Mud." 

Ideala  longed  to  confide  in  him,  but  her  shyness  con- 
tinued, and  she  walked  by -his  side  like  one  in  a  dream. 

He  took  her  to  the  station,  and  when  they  parted,  he 
said : 

"  You  will  write  and  tell  me  ?  " 

Ideala  looked  up.  There  were  no  hard  lines  hi  his  face 
now  ;  he  was  slightly  flushed. 

"  Yes,  I  will  write,"  she  answered  almost  in  a  whisper. 

And  then  the  train,  "with  rush  andring,"  bore  her  away 
through  the  spring  country;  but  she  neither  saw  the  young 
green  of  the  hedge-rows,  nor  "the  young  lambs  bleating 
in  the  meadows,"  nor  the  broad  river  as  she  passed  it,  nor 
the  fleecy  clouds  that  flecked  the  blue.  She  was  not  really 
conscious  of  anything  for  the  moment,  but  that  sudden 
great  unspeakable  uplLting  of  the  spirit,  which  is  joy. 


IDEALA. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  following  week  Ideala  came  to  London,  but  not  to 
•us— she  had  promised  to  stay  with  some  other  people  first. 
•She  wrote  three  times  to  Lorrimer  while  she  was  with  them 
— first  to  thank  him  for  his  kindness,  to  which  he  replied 
briefly,  begging  her  to  confide  in  him,  and  let  him  help  her. 

In  her  second  letter  Ideala  told  him  what  had  occurred. 
His  reply  was  business-like.  He  urged  her  to  let  him  con- 
sult his  legal  friends  about  her  case  ;  pointed  out  that  she 
could  not  be  expected  to  remain  with  her  husband  now ; 
and  showed  her  that  s.he  would  not  have  to  suffer  much 
from  all  the  publicity  which  was  necessary  to  free  her  from 
him.  She  replied  that  her  first  impulse  had  been  to  obtain 
legal  redress,  but  that  now  she  could  not  make  up  her  miud 
to  face  the  publicity.  She  would  see  him,  however,  when 
she  returned,  and  consult  him  about  it ;  and  she  would  also 
like  to  consult  those  books  in  the  library.  Her  buoyant 
spirit  was  already  recovering  under  the  influence  of  a  new 
interest  in  life. 

Lorrimer's  answer  was  formal,  as  his  other  notes  had 
been.  He  begged  her  to  make  any  use  of  the  library  she 
pleased,  only  to  let  him  know  when  to  expect  her,  that  she 
Might  have  no  trouble  with  the  officials  ;  and  offered  her 
any  other  help  in  his  power. 

In  the  mean  time,  my  sifter  Claudia  had  seen  Ideala,  and 
had  been  pleased  to  find  her,  not  looking  well,  certainly, 
but  jusvas  cheerful  as  usual. 

"It  is  evident  the  place  does  not  agree  with  her," 
Claudia  said  ;  "  but  a  few  weeks  with  us  will  set  her  all 
right  again." 

They  drove  in  the  park  together  one  afternoon,  and 
talked,  as  usual,  of  many  things,  the  state  of  society  being 
one  of  them.  This  was  a  subject  upon  which  my  sister 
descanted  frequently,  aud  it  was  from  her  that  Ideala 
learned  all  she  knew  of  it. 

"  Can  you  wonder,"  Claudia  said  on  this  occasion,  "  that 


94  IDEALA. 

men  a**  Jtomoral  when  ladies  in  society  rather  pride  them- 
selves than  otherwise  on  imitating  the  demi-monde  ?  " 

"  Have  you  ever  noticed,"  Ideala  answered  indirectly, 
"  how  frequently  a  word  or  phrase  which  you  know  quite 
well  by  sight,  but  have  never  thought  of  and  do  not  under- 
stand, is  suddenly  brought  home  to  you,  as  it  were  ?     You 
come  across  it  everywhere,  and  at  last  take  the  trouble  to 
find  out  what  it  means,  in  self-defense.    That  expression — 
demi-mo  :de— has  begun  to  haunt  me  since  I  came  to  town, 
and  I  ffcel  I  shall  be  obliged  to  look  it  up  at  once  to  stop  the 
nuisance.    We  went  to  a  theater  the  other  night,  and  when 
we  were  settled  there,  I  saw  my  husband  in  the  stalls  with 
a  lady  in  flame-colored  robes.    I  didn't  know  he  was  in 
town.    The  rest  of  our  party  saw  him,  too,  and  the  gentle- 
men had  a  mysterious  little  consultation  at  the  back  of  the 
box.    Then  one  of  them  left  us,  but  returned  almost  im- 
mediately, and  told  us  the  carriage  had  not  gone,  and  hadn't 
we  better  try  some  other  theatre— the  piece  at  that  one  was 
not  so  good  as  they  had  supposed.    But  I  knew  they  had 
taken  a  lot  of  trouble,  entirely  on  my  account,  to  get  a  box 
there,  as  I  had  expressed  a  wish  to  see  that  particular  piece, 
and  I  said  I  had  come  to  enjoy  it,  and  meant  to.    I  did  en- 
joy it,  too.    It  was  so  absorbing  that  I  forgot  all  about  my 
husband,  and  don't  know  when  he  left  the  theater.    I  only 
know  that  he  dissappeared  without  coming  near  us.    When 
we  got  back,  Lilian  came  to  my  room  and  told  me  they 
were  all  saying,*clown-sta5r3,  that  I  had  behaved  splendidly, 
and  I  said  I  was  delighted  to  hear  it,  particularly  as  I  did 
not  know  how,  or  when,  or  where  I  had  come  to  deserve 
such  praise.    And  then  she  asked  me  if  I  knew  who  ifc  was 
my  husband  was  with.    I  said  no  ;  some  alderman's  wife, 
I  supposed.    '  Nothing  half  so  good,'  she  answered.    « Thai 
woman  is  notorious;   she  is  one  of  the  demi-monde!' 
'Well,'  I  said,  'I  don't  suppose  she  is  in  society.'    And 
then  Lilian  said,  '  Good  gracious,  Ideala  I  how  can  you  be 
EO  tranquil  ?    You  must  care.    I  think  you  are  the  most  ex- 
traordinary person  I  ever  met.'    And  I  told  her  that  the 


IDEALA.  95 

•only  extraordinary  thing  about  me  just  then  was  a  great 
''exposition  of  sleep 'that  had  ccme  upon  me.  And  then 
she  left  me  ;  but  she  told  me  afterward  that  she  thought  I 
was  acting,  and  came  back  later  to  see  if  I  really  could 
sleep." 

"  And  you  did  sleep,  Ideala?  " 

"  Like  a  top — why  not  ?  But  now  you*are  following  suit 
with  your  ill-conducted  people,  and  your  demi-monde,  I 
want  to  know  what  you-mean  by  that  phrase?" 

Then  Claudia  explained  it  to  her. 

"  But  I  thought  all  that  had  ended  with  the  Roman  Em- 
pire," Ideala  protested. 

Claudia  laughed,  and  then  went  on,  without  pity,  de- 
scribing the  class  as  they  sink  lower  3,nd  lower,  and  cruelly 
omitting  no  detail  that  might  complete  the  picture. 

"  But  the  men  are  bad,"  said  Ideala. 

"  Oh,  as  bad,  yes ! "  was  the  answer. 

Ideala  was  pale  with  disgust. 

"And  we  have  to  touch  them  !"  she  said. 

Her  ignorance  of  this  phase  of  life  had  been  so  com- 
plete, and  her  faith  in  those  about  her  so  perfect,  that  the 
shock  of  this  dreadful  revelation  was  almost  too  much  for 
her.  At  first,  as  the  carriage  drove  on  through  the  crowd- 
ed streets,  she  saw  in  every  woman's  face  a  hopeless  degra- 
dation, and  in  every  man's  eyes  a  loathsome  sin  ;  and  she 
exclaimed,  as  another  woman  had  exclaimed  on  a  similar 
occasion  : 

"  O  Claudia  !  why  did  you  tell  me  ?  It  is  too  dreadful- 
I  can  ndl  bear  to  know  it." 

"  How  a  woman  can  be  at  once  so  clever  and  such  a  fool 
as  you  are,  Ideala,  puzzles  me,"  Claudia  remonstrated,  not 
unkindly. 

She  had  warmed  as  she  went  on,  and  forgot  in  her  in- 
dignation to  take  advantage  of  this  long- looked -for  oppor- 
tunity to  speak  to  Ideala  about  her  own  troubles  ;  and 
afterward,  when  she  showed  an  inclination  to  open  the 
subject,  Ideala  put  her  oil  with  a  jest. 


IDEALA. 


|"  Le  marriage  est  beau  pour  les  amants  et  utile  pour  les 
saints,'  "  she  quoted  lightly.  "  Class  me  with  the  saints, 
and  talk  of  something  interesting." 

A  few  days  later  Claudia  came  to  me  in  dismay. 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  "  she  said.  "  Ideala  is  not  coming 
to  us  at  all  1  She  says  she  must  go  back  at  once." 

"  Go  back  !  "  I  Exclaimed,  "  and  why  ?  " 

"  She  is  going  to  write  something,  for  which  she  requires 
to  read  a  great  deal,  and  she  says  she  must  go  back  to 
work." 

"  But  that  is  nonsense,"  I  protested.  "  She  can  work 
as  much  as  shs  likes  here— I  can  even  help  her." 

"I  know  that,"  Claudia  answered  ;  "  but  she  spoke  so 
positively,  I  could  not  insist  I  suppose  the  truth  is  her 
husband  has  ordered  her  back,  and  she  is  going  to  be  a 
good,  obedient  child,  as  usual." 

"  Does  she  seem  at  all  unhappy  ?  " 

'  No  ;  and  that  is  the  strange  part  of  it.  She  has  coolly 
broken  I  don't  know  how  many  other  engagements  to  re- 
turn at  once,  and  instead  of  seeming  disappointed,  she 
simply  'glows  and  is  glad.'  She  says  nothing,  but  I  can 
see  it.  I  don't  know  what  on  earth  she  is  up  to  now." 

And  Claudia  left  the  room,  frowning  and  perplexed. 

When  I  heard  she  was  not  unhappy,  this  sudden  whim 
of  Ideala's  did  not  disturb  me  much  ;  indeed,  I  was  rather 
glad  to  think  she  had  found  something  to  be  enthusiastic 
about.  Her  fits  of  enthusiasm  were  rarer  now,  and  I 
thought  this  symptom  of  one  a  good  sign.  It  was  odd. 
though,  that  I  had  not  seen  her  while  she  was  in  town.  I 
was  half  inclined  to  believe  she  had  avoided  me. 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

To  GIVE  the  story  continuity,  it  will  be  necessary  to  piece 
the  events  together  as  they  followed.  Many  of  them  only 
came  to  my  knowledge  some  time  after  they  occurred,  and 
even  then  I  was  left  to  surmise  a  good  deal ;  but  I  am  able 


IDEALA.  97 

now,  with  the  help  of  papers  that  have  lately  cone  into 
my  possession,  to  verify  most  of  my  conjectures  and  ar- 
range the  details. 

The  summer  weather  had  begun  now.  Laburnums  and 
lilacs  were  in  full  flower,  the  air  was  sweet  with  scent  and 
song,  and  to  one  who  had  borne  the  heavy  winter  with  a 
heavy  heart,  but  was  able  at  last  to  lay  down  a  load  of 
care,  the  transition  must  have  been  like  a  sudden  change 
from  painful  sickness  to  perfect  health.  Ideala  went  to  the 
Great  Hospital  at  once.  She  had  written  to  fix  a  day 
and  Lorrimer  was  waiting  for  her.  She  was  not  taken  to 
his  room,  however,  as  on  the  previous  occasion,  but  to 
another  part  of  the  building,  a  long  gallery  hung  with 
pictures,  where  she  found  him  superintending  the  arrange- 
ment of  some  precious  things  in  cabinets.  Ideala  looked 
better  and  younger  that  day  in  her  summer  dress  than  she 
had  done  in  her  heavy  winter  wraps  on  the  occasion  of 
their  first  meeting  ;  but  when  she  found  herself  face  to  face 
with  Lorrimer  she  began  to  tremble,  and  was  overcome 
•with  nervousness  in  a  way  that  was  new  to  her.  He  saw 
the  change  in  her  appearance  and  manner  at  a  glance,  and, 
smiling  slightly,  begged  her  to  follow  him,  and  led  the  way 
through  long  passages  and  many  doors,  passing  numbers 
of  people,  to  his  own  room.  He  spoke  to  her  once  or  twice 
on  the  way,  but  she  was  only  able  to  answer  confusedly,  in. 
a  voice  that  was  rendered  strident  by  the  great  effort  she 
had  to  make  to  control  it.  He  busied  himself  with  some 
papers  for" a  few  minutes  when  they  reached  his  room,  to 
give  her  time  to  recover  herself,  and  then  he  said,  standing 
with  his  back  to  the  fireplace,  looking  down  at  her,  and, 
speaking  in  a  tone  that  was  even  more  musical  and  caress- 
ing than  she  remembered  it : 

"  Well,  and  how  are  you?  And  how  has  it  been  with 
you  since  your  return ;" 

"  I  am  utterly  shaken  and  unnerved,  as  you  see,"  she- 
answered  ;  then  added,  passionately,  "  I  cannot  bear  my 
iife  ;  it  is  too  hateful." 


98  TDEALA. 

"  There  is  no  need  to  bear  it,"  he  said.  "  Nothing  is 
easier  than  to  get  a  separation  after  what  has  occurred. 
Was  there  any  witness  ?" 

"  No  ;  and  I  don't  think  any  one  in  the  house  suspects 
that  there  is  anything  wrong.  And  none  of  my  friends 
know  ;  I  have  never  told  them.  I  wonder  why  I  told  you  ?" 

"  You  wanted  me  to  help  you,"  he  suggested. 

"  I  don't  think  I  did,"  she  said.  "  How  could  I  want 
you  to  help  me,  when  I  don't  mean  to  do  anything  ?  I  fancy 
I  told  you  because  I  was  afraid  you  would  think  me  a  little 
mad  that  day,  and  I  would  rather  you  knew  the  truth  than 
think  me  mad.  I  don't  mean  to  try  for  a  separation.  I 
can't  leave  him  entirely  to  his  own  devices.  If  I  did,  he 
would  certainly  grow  from  bad  to  worse. 

"  And  if  you  don't,  what  will  become  of  you?  I  think 
much  more  of  such  a  life  would  make  you  reckless." 

She  was  silent  for  a  little,  then  she  exclaimed  : 

"  Help  me  not  to  grow  reckless  ;  I  am  so  alone  !" 

He  took  her  hands  and  looked  down  into  her  eyes.  A 
sudden,  deep  flush  spread  over  his  face,  smoothing  out  all 
the  lines,  as  she  had  seen  it  do  once  before,  and  transform- 
ing him. 

"  It  is  like  walking  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice  in  the  dark," 
he  said  in  a  low  voice,  and  his  grasp  tightened  as  he  spoke. 

There  was  something  mesmeric  in  his  touch  that  over- 
powered Ideala.  She  felt  a  change  in  herself  at  the  mo- 
ment, and  she  was  never  the  same  woman  again. 

"  I  will  help  you  if  lean,"  he  said  after  another  pause, 
and  then  he  let  her  go. 

After  that  they  talked  for  some  time.  He  tried  to  persuade 
her  to  reconsider  her  decision  and  leave  her  husband.  He 
honestly  believed  it  was  ihe  best  thing  she  could  do,  and 
told  her  why  he  thought  so.  She  acknowledged  the  wisdom 
of  his  advice,  but  declined  to  follow  it,  and  he  was  son^ 
•what  puzzled,  for  the  reasons  she  gave  were  hardly  enough 
to  account  for  .her  determination.  They  wandered  away 
from  that  subject  at.  lust,  However,  uucL  talked  of  many 


IDE  ALA.  99 

other  things.  He  told  Ideala  of  his  first  coming  to  the 
Great  Hospital  as  a  patient,  and  gave  her  some  of  the  de- 
tails of  his  own  case,  and  told  her  enough  of  his  private 
history  to  arouse  her  sympathy  and  interest ;  but  of  the 
nature  of  these  confidences  I  know  nothing.  Ideala  felt 
in  honor  bound  not  to  repeat  them,  as  they  were  made  to 
her  in  the  course  of  a  private  conversation,  and  she  was 
always  scrupulously  faithful  to  all  such  trusts.  I  know, 
however,  that  he  was  a  man  who  had  suffered  acutely,  both 
from  unhappy  circumstances  and  from  those  troubles  of 
the  mind  which  beset  clever  men  at  the  outset  of  their 
career,  and  sometimes  never  leave  them  entirely  at  peace. 
But  this  man  was  something  more  than  a  clever  man  ;  he 
was  a  man  in  a  thousand.  He  had  in  a  strong  degree  all 
that  is  worst  and  best  in  a  man.  The  highest  and  most 
spiritual  aspirations  warred  in  him  with  the  most  carnal 
impulses,  and  he  spent  his  days  in  fighting  to  attain  to  the 
one  and  subdue  the  other. 

Ideala  had  never  known  a  man  like  this  man.  His  talents, 
his  rapid  changes  of  mood,  as  sense  or  conscience  got  the 
upper  hand,  and  his  versatility  charmed  her  imagination 
and  excited  her  interest ;  and  he  had,  besides,  that  magnetic 
power  over  her  by  which  it  is  given  to  some  men  to  compel 
people  of  certain  temperaments  to  their  will.  While  she 
was  with  him  he  could  have  made  her  believe  that  black 
was  white,  and  not  only  believe  it,  but  be  glad  to  think 
that  it  was  so  ;  and  he  always  compelled  her  to  say  ex- 
actly what  she  had  ia  her  mind  at  the  moment,  even  wbfen 
H  was  something  that  she  would  very  much  rather  not 
have  said. 

"  But  I  am  forgetting  my  other  object  in  coming,'* 
Ideala  broke  off  at  last.  "  May  I  look  at  the  books  ?'' 

Lorrimer  took  out  his  watch. 

"  You  ought  to  have  some  lunch  first,"  he  said.  "  If  you 
will  come  now  and  have  some,  we  can  return  and  look  at 
the  books  afterward." 

Ideala  acquiesced,  fearing  it  was  his  own  lunch  time,  and 


100  IDE  ALA. 

knowing  it  would  detain  him  if  she  did  not  accompany 
him. 

Ladies  not  being  allowed  to  lunch  at  the  Great  Hospital, 
they  went,  as  before,  to  the  station  close  by,  and  sat  down 
side  by  side,  perfectly  happy  together,  chatting,  laughing, 
talking  about  their  childhood,  and  making  those  trifling 
confidences  which  go  so  far  to  promote  intimacy,  and  are 
often  the  first  evidence  of  affection.  Now  and  then  they 
touched  on  graver  matters.  He  upheld  all  that  was  old, 
and  believed  we  can  have  no  better  institutions  in  the  fu- 
ture than  those  which  have  already  existed  in  the  past. 
Ideala  had  begun  to  think  differently. 

"  I  am  sure  it  is  a  mistake  to  be  forever  looking  back  to 
the  past  for  precedents,"  she  said.  "  The  past  has  its  charm, 
of  course,  but  it  is  the  charm  of  the  charnel-house— it  is 
the  dead  past,  and  what  was  good  for  one  age  is  bad  for 
another." 

"As  one  man's  meat  is  another  man's  poison  ?"  he  said. 

"  Proverbs  prove  nothing,"  she  answered  lightly.  ' '  Have 
you  noticed  that  they  go  in  pairs  ?  There  is  always  one  for 
each  side  of  an  argument.  '  One  man's  meat  is  another 
man's  poison '  is  met  by  'What  is  sauce  for  the  goose  is  sauce 
for  the  gander ' — and  so  on.  But  don't  you  think  it  absurd 
to  cling  to  old  customs  that  are  dying  a  natural  death? 
Learn  of  the  past,  if  you  like,  but  live  in  the  present,  and 
make  your  laws  to  meet  its  needs.  It  is  this  eternal  wait- 
ing on  the  past  to  copy  it  rather  than  to  be  warned  by  its 
failures,  to  do  as  it  did,  under  the  impression,  apparently, 
that  we  must  succeed  better  than  it  did,  following  in  its 
footsteps  though  we  know  they  led  to  ruin  once,  and,  be- 
cause the  way  was  pleasant,  being  surprised  to  find  that  it 
must  end  again  in  disaster— it  is  this  abandonment  of  all 
hope  of  finding  new  and  efficacious  remedies  for  the  old 
diseases  of  society  that  has  checked  our  progress  for  hun- 
dreds of  years,  and  will  keep  the  world  in  some  respects 
just  as  it  was  at  the  time  of  the  Crucifixion.  For  my  own 
part,  I  cannot  see  that  history  does  repeat  itself,  except  in 


IDE  ALA.  101 

trifling  details,  and  in  the  lives  of  unimportant  individuals." 

"  I  think,"  he  rejoined,  "  if  you  have  studied  the  decline 
of  the  Roman  Empire,  you  must  have  seen  a  striking  anal- 
ogy betwen  that  and  our  own  history  at  the  present  time. 
"With  the  exception  of  changes  of  manners,  which  only  i 
affect  the  surface  of  society,  we  are  in  much  the  same  state 
now  as  the  Romans  were  then." 

"I  know  many  people  say  so,  and  believe  it,"  Ideala  an- 
swered; "  and  there  is  evidence  enough  to  prove  it  to  peo- 
ple who  are  trying  to  arrive  at  a  foregone  conclusion  ;  but 
it  is  not  the  resemblances  we  should  look  to,  but  the  differ- 
ences. It  is  in  them  that  our  hope  lies,  and  they  seem  to  me 
to  be  essential.  Take  the  one  grand  difference  that  has  been 
made  by  the  teaching  for  hundreds  of  years  of  the  perfect 
morality  of  the  Christian  religion  I  Do  you  think  it  possible 
for  men,  while  they  cling  to  it,  to  '  reel  back  into  the  beast 
and  be  no  more '  ?  " 

"  Bat  are  men  clinging  to  it?" 

"Yes,  in  a  way;  for  it  has  insensibly  become  a  part  of 
all  of  us,  and  has  made  it  possible  for  us  to  show  whole 
communities  of  moral  philosophers  now  in  a  generation  ; 
the  ancients  had  only  an  occasional  one  in  a  century." 

"  But  such  a  one  1'' 

"  The  old  moral  philosophers  were  grand,  certainly,  but 
not  grander  than  our  own  men  are,  of  whom  we  only  hear 
less  because  there  are  so  many  more  of  them." 

"  But  do  you  mean  to  say  society  is  less  sinful  than  it 
was?"  - 

"  There  is  one  section  of  society  at  the  present  day,  they 
tell  me,  which  is  most  desperately  wicked.  It  is  worse  than 
any  class  was  when  the  world  was  young,  because  it  knows 
so  much  better.  But  I  believe  the  bulk  of  the  people  like 
right  so  well  that  they  only  want  a  strong  impulse  to  make 
them  follow  it.  I  feel  sure  sometimes  that  we  are  all  living 
on  the  brink  of  a  great  change  for  the  better,  and  that  there 
is  only  one  thing  wanting  now — a  great  calamity,  or  a 
.great  teachor— to  startle  us  out  of  our  apathy  and  set  us 


103  ^DEALA. 

to  work.  We  are  not  bold  enough.  "We  should  try  more 
experiments  ;  they  can  but  fail,  and  if  they  do,  we  should 
still  have  learned  something  from  them.  But  I  do  not  think 
we  shall  fail  forever.  What  we  want  is  somewhere,  and 
must  be  found  eventually." 

"  They  tried  some  experiments  -with  the  marriage  laws  in 
France  once,"  Lorrimer  observed  tentatively. 

"  Yes,  and  failed  contemptibly  because  their  motive  was 
contemptible.  They  did  not  want  to  improve  society,  but 
to  make  self-indulgence  possible  without  shame.  I  think  our 
•wn  marriage  laws  might  be  improved." 

"  People  are  trying  to  improve  them,"  he  said,  with  a 
slight  laugh.  "A  friend  of  mine  has  just  married  a  girl  who 
objected  to  take  the  oath  of  obedience.  How  absurd  it  is 
for  a  girl  of  nineteen  to  imagine  she  knows  better  than  all 
the  ages." 

"I  think,"  saidldeala,  "that  it  is  more  absurd  for  'all  the 
ages'  to  subscribe  to  an  oath  which  something  stronger  than 
themselves  makes  it  impossible  for  half  of  them  to  keep. 
Strength  of  character  must  decide  the  question  of  place  in 
a  household,  as  it  does  elsewhere ;  and  it  is  surely  folly  to 
require,  and  useless  to  insist  on,  the  submission  of  the  strong 
to  the  weak.  The  marriage  oath  is  farcical.  A  woman  is 
made  to  swear  to  love  a  man  who  will  probably  prove  un- 
lovable, to  honor  a  man  who  is  as  likely  as  not  to  be  unde- 
serving of  honor,  and  to  obey  a  man  who  may  be  incapable 
of  judging  what  is  best  either  for  himself  or- her.  I  have  no 
respect  for  the  ages  that  uphold  such  nonsense.  There  was 
never  any  need  to  bind  us  with  an  oath.  If  men  were  all 
they  ought  to  be,  wouldn't  we  obey  them  gladly?  To  be  able 
to  do  so  is  all  we  ask." 

"Well,  it  is  a  difficult  question,"  he  answered,  "and 
I  don't  think  we  need  trouble  ourselves  about  it,  any  way. 
Do  you  like  flowers  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  burst  out,  in  another  tone;  "and  easy- 
chairs,  and  pictures,  and  china,  and  everything  that  is 
beautiful,  and  all  sensual  pleasures." 


IDEALA.  103 

She  said  it,  but  she  knew  in  a  moment  that  she  had  used 
the  wrong  word,  and  was  covered  with  confusion. 

Lorrimer  looked  at  her  and  laughed. 

"  And  so  do  I,"  he  said. 

"  Oh  I  if  only  I  could  unsay  that !  "  thought  Ideala  ;  but 
the  word  had  gone  forth,  and  was  already  garnered  against 
her. 

Then  came  an  awful  moment  for  her — the  moment  of 
going  and  paying.  It  was  hateful  to  let  him  pay  for  her 
lunch,  but  she  could  not  help  it.  She  was  seized  with  one 
of  those  fits  of  shyness  which  made  it  just  a  degree  less 
painful  to  allow  it  than  to  make  the  effort  to  prevent  it. 

They  returned  to  Lorrimer's  room  and  pored  together 
over  a  catalogue,  looking  up  the  books  she  wanted.  When 
they  had  found  then-  names  and  numbers,  Lorrimer  sent 
for  them  from  the  library,  but  it  was  too  late  to  do  any- 
thing that  day,  and  so  she  rose  to  go. 

Lorrimer  walked  with  her  to  the  station,  and  saw  her 
into  the  train.  On  they  way  they  talked  of  little  children. 
He  loved  them  as  she  did. 

"  A  friend  of  mine,"  he  said,  "  has  the  most  beautiful 
child  I  ever  saw.  Just  to  look  at  it  makes  me  feel  a  better 


CHAPTER  XVHI. 

IN  the  days  that  followed,  a  singular  change  came  over 
Ideala.  No  external  circumstance  affected  her.  She 
moved  like  one  in  a  dream  ;  thought  had  ceased  for  her  ; 
all  life  was  one  delicious  sensation,  and  at  times  she  could 
not  bear  the  delight  of  it  in  silence.  She  would  tell  it  in 
low  songs  in  the  twilight ;  she  would  make  her  piano  speak 
it  in  a  hundred  chords ;  and  it  would  burst  from  her  in 
some  sudden  glow  of  enthusiasm  that  made  people  wonder 
— the  apparent  cause  being  too  slight  to  account  for  it. 
"While  this  lasted,  nothing  hurt  her.  She  saw  the  suffer- 
ings of  others,  unmoved.  She  met  her  husband's  brutali- 
ties with  a  smiling  countenance,  and  bore  the  physical 


104  ALA. 

discomfort  of  a  bad  sprain  without  much  consciousness  of 
pain.  And  she  knew  nothing  of  time,  and  never  asked 
herself  to  what  she  owed  this  joy. 

The  utter  forgetfulness  of  everything  that  came  upon 
her  when  she  was  alone  was  almost  incredible.  One  even- 
ing she  spent  two  hours  in  walking  a  distance  she  might 
easily  have  done  in  forty  minutes.  She  had  been  to  £  ee  a 
eick  person,  and  when  she  found  herself  in  the  fresh  air, 
after  having  spent  .some  time  in  a  small,  close  room,  the 
dreamlike  feeling  came  over  her,  and  her  spirit  was  up- 
lifted with  inexpressible  gladness.  The  summer  air  was 
sweet  and  warm,  a  light  rain  was  falling,  and  she  took  off 
her  hat  and  wandered  on,  looking  up,  but  noting  nothing, 
and  singing  Schubert's  "Hark!  hark!  the  lark,''  to her- 
Belf ,  softly,  as  she  came.  A  man  standing  at  a  cottage- 
door  begged  her  to  go  in  and  shelter.  She  looked  at  him, 
and  her  face  was  radiant — the  rain-drops  sparkled  on  her 
hair.  He  was  only  a  working-man,  "  clay — and  common 
clay,"  but  the  light  in  her  eyes  passed  through  him,  and 
the  memory  of  her  stayed  with  him,  a  thing  apart  from 
bis  daily  life,  held  sacred,  and  not  to  be  described.  A  man 
might  live  a  hundred  years  and  never  see  a  woman  look 
like  that. 

"  I  did  not  know  it  was  raining,"  she  said.  "It  is  only- 
light  rain,  and  the  air  is  so  sweet,  and  the  glow  down  there 
in  the  west  is  like  heaven.  How  beautiful  life  is  !  " 

"  Ay,  lady  1 "  he  answered,  and  stood  there  spellbound, 
watching  her  as  .she  passed  on  slowly,  and  listening  to  her 
singing  as  she  went. 

A  few  days  later  she  saw  Lorrirner  again.  She  found 
him  in  his  room  this  time.  He  knew  she  was  coming,  and 
flushed  with  pleasure  when  he  met  her  at  the  door.  Ideala 
was  not  nervous  ;  it  all  seemed  a  matter  of  course  to  her 
now.  The  books  he  had  got  for  her  from  the  library  were 
where  she  had  left  them.  He  placed  a  chair  for  her  beside 
his  writing- table,  and  tHen  went  on  with  his  own  work. 
She  had  understood  that  she  was  to  read  in  the  library,  but 


IDEALA.  103 

-she  did  not  think  of  that  now  ;  she  simply  acquiesced  in 
this  arrangement  as  she  would  have  done  in  any  other  he 
might  have  made  for  her.  A  secretary  was  busy  in  an- 
other part  of  the  room  when  she  entered,  but  after  awhile 
he  left  them.  Then  Lorrimer  looked  up  aud  smiled. 

"  You  are  looking  better  to-day,"  he  said.  "  Tell  me  what 
you  have  been  doing  since  I  saw  you." 

"  Lotus-eating,"  she  answered.  "How  lovely  the  sum- 
mer 13 1  Suiv.e  I  saw  you  I  have  wanted  to  do  nothing  but 
'rest  and  dream." 

"  You  have  been  happy,  then?" 

"Yes." 

"  Is  he  kind  to  you  ?" 

"  Oh— he  !  He  is  just  the  same.  There  is  no  change  in 
my  life.  The  change  is  in  me." 

"  Then  you  mean  to  be  happy  in  spite  of  him?  I  call 
that  the  beginning  of  wisdom.  I  know  two  other  ladies 
who  hate  their  husbands,  and  they  manage  to  enjoy  life 
pretty  well.  And  I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  miserable 
always  because  you  happen  to  have  married  the  wrong 
man.  How  was  it  you  married  him?  Were  you  very 
much  in  love  with  him  ?" 

"  No,  not  in  the  least." 

"  Spooney,  then?" 

*'  Not  even  *  spooney,'  as  you  call  it.  I  was  very  young 
at  the  time.  Very  young  girls  know  nothing  of  love  and 
mari-iage." 

"Very  young,"  he  repeated,  thoughtfully.  He  was 
drawing  figures  with  his  pen  on  the  blotting-paper  before 
him.  "  But  why  did  you  marry  him,  then  ?" 

"  I  can  give  you  no  reason— except  that  I  was  not  happy 
at  home." 

"  You  all  say  that,"  slipped  from  him,  with  a  gesture  o£ 
impatience. 

"  I  wish  I  had  been  more  original,"  said  Ideala. 

She  took  up  her  book  again,  and  he  resumed  his  writing, 
and  for  some  time  there  was  silence.  But  Ideala's  atten- 


106  IDEALA. 

tion  wandered.  She  began  to  examine  the  room,  whicb 
was,  as  usual,  in  a  state  of  disorder.  One  side  of  it  was 
lined  with  cabinets  of  various  sizes  and  periods.  Labels 
indicated  the  contents  of  some  of  them.  Only  one  picture 
hung  on  that  side  of  the  room— it  was  the  portrait  of  a 
gentleman— but  several  others  stood  on  the  ground  against 
the  cabinets.  The  walls  were  painted  some  dark  color.  A 
Japanese  screen  was  drawn  across  the  door,  and  beside  it 
was  a  hard,  narrow  settee  covered  with  dark-green  velvet. 
Books  were  piled  upon  it,  and  heavily  embroidered  foreign 
stuffs,  and  near  it  a  number  of  Japanese  drawings  stood  on 
a  stand.  The  mantelpiece  was  crowded  with  an  odd  mix- 
ture of  china  and  other  curios,  all  looking  as  if  they  had 
just  been  unpacked.  Above  it  another  picture  was  hung, 
a  steel  engraving.  The  writing-table  by  which  they  sat 
was  nearly  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  In  the  window  was 
another  table,  covered  also  with  a  miscellaneous  collection 
of  curios  ;  and  on  every  other  available  article  of  furniture 
books  were  piled.  The  high  backs  of  the  chairs  were 'elab- 
orately carved,  the  seats  being  of  the  same  green  velvet  as 
the  settee.  A  high  wire-guard  surrounded  the  fireplace, 
and  this  unusual  precaution  made  one  think  that  the  con- 
tents of  the  room  must  be  precious.  The  occupant  of  this 
apartment  might  have  been  an  artist,  a  man  of  letters,  or 
a  virtuoso -probably  the  latter;  but  whatever  he  was,  it 
was  evident  that  his  study  was  a  work-shop,  and  not  a 
showroom. 

From  the  room  Ideala  looked  to  her  companion .  He  was 
writing  rapidly  and  seemed  absorbed  in  his  subject.  He 
was  frowning  slightly,  his  face  was  pale  and  set,  and  he 
looked  older  by  ten  years  than  when  he  had  spoken  last, 
and  seemed  cold  and  unimpassioned  as  a  judge  ;  but  Ideala 
thought  again  that  the  face  was  a  fine  one. 

Presently  he  became  conscious  of  her  earnest  gaze.  He 
did  not  look  up,  but  every  feature  softened,  and  a  warm  glow 
spread  from  forehead  to  chin  ;  it  was  as  if  a  deep  shadow^ 
had  been  lifted,  and  a  younger,  but  less  noble raan  revealed. 


IDEALA.  107 

"  How  you  change  t"  Ideala  exclaimed  -  "  not  from  day 
to  day,  but  from  moment  to  moment.  You  are  like  two 
men.  I  wish  I  could  get  behind  that  horrid  veil  of  flesh 
that  hides  you  from  me.  I  want  to  see  your  soul." 

He  smiled. 

"  You  are  getting  tired,"  he  said.  "  Do  let  me  persuade 
you  to  come  and  have  some  lunch.  When  you  begin  to 
speculate  I  know  you  have  done  enough." 

But  Ideala  could  not  go  through  the  ordeal  of  who  should 
pay  for  lunch  again.  She  preferred  to  starve.  The  cam- 
maraderie  between  them  was  mental  enough  to  be  manlike 
already,'  but  only  as  long  as  there  was  no  question  of  ma- 
terial outlay. 

"  Mayn't  I  stay  here  and  read?"  she  said.  "  I  can  have 
something  by  and  by,  when  I  want  it.  Do  go  and  leave  me." 

And  he  was  obliged  to  go  at  last,  wondering  somewhat 
at  her  want  of  appetite. 

When  he  returned  she  was  still  working  diligently,  and 
they  spent  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  together,  reading,  writ- 
ing and  chatting,  until  it  was  time  for  Ideala  to  go.  Lor- 
rimer  saw  her  into  her  train,  and  fixed  another  day  for  her 
to  return  and  go  on  with  her  work. 

And'so  the  thing  became  a  settled  arrangement  When- 
ever she  could  spare  the  time  she  went  and  worked  beside 
him,  and  he  was  always  the  same,  kindly,  considerate, 
helping  her  now  and  then,  but  not,  as  a  rule,  interfering 
with  her.  She  just  came  and  went  as  she  pleased,  and  as 
she  would  have  done  had  he  been  her  brother.  Sometimes 
they  were  alone  together  for  hours,  sometimes  his  secretary 
worked  in  the  room  with  them,  and  always  there  were 
people  coming  and  going.  There  was  nothing  to  suggest  a 
thought  of  impropriety,  and  they  were  soon  on  quarreling 
terms,  falling  out  about  a  great  many  things— which  is 
always  the  sign  of  a  good  understanding;  but  after  the  first 
they  touched  on  no  dangerous  subject  for  a  long  time.  At 
last,  however,  there  came  a  change.  Ideala  noticed  one 
day  that  Lorriiner  was  restless  and  irritable. 


108  IDEALA. 

11  Am  I  interfering  with  your  work  to-day?*'  she  said 
"  Do  tell  me.  Any  other  day  will  suit  me  just  as  well." 

''Oh,  no,'' he  answered.  "  I  am  lazy,  that  is  all.  How 
are  you  getting  on?  Let  me  see." 

And  he  took  the  paper  she  was  engaged  upon,  and  looked 
at  it. 

She  watched  him,  and  saw  that  he  was  not  reading,  al- 
though he  held  it  before  his  eyes  for  some  time.  He  was 
paler  than  usual  and  there  was  a  look  of  indecision  in  his 
face,  very  unlike  its  habitual  expression,  which  was  serene 
and  self-contained. 

Looking  up  all  at  once,  he  met  her  eyes  fixed  on  him 
frankly  and  affectionately,  but  he  did  not  respond  to  her 
smile. 

"  How  do  you  suppose  all  this  is  going  to  end?"  he  said 
abruptly, 

"  Won't  it  do  ?"  she  answered,  thinking  of  her  paper, 
"  Had  I  better  give  it  up,  or  rewrite  it  ?" 

He  threw  the  paper  down  with  a  gesture  of  impatience, 
and  got  up;  and  then,  as  if  ashamed  of  his  irritability,  he 
took  it  again,  and  gave  it  back  to  her.  In  doing  so  his 
hand  accidentally  touched  hers. 

"How  cold  you  are!"  he  said.  "Let  me  warm  your 
hands  for  you." 

"They  are  benumbed,"  she  answered,  letting  him  take 
them  and  rub  them. 

After  a  moment  he  said,  without  looking  at  her  : 

"  Do  you  know  it  is  very  good  of  you  to  come  here  like 
this?" 

"Why?  "she  asked.     "It  suits  my  own  convenience." 

"  I  know.  But  it  is  refreshing  to  find  some  one  who  will 
suit  their  own  convenience  so." 

"That  sounds  as  if  it  were  not  the  right  thing  to  do  I" 
Bhe  exclaimed. 

"Nonsense!"  he  answered.  "You  misunderstand 
me." 

Ideala  withdrew  her  hands  hastily,  and  half  rose. 


IDE  ALA.  10S 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  he  said.  "  Come,  don't  be  idle  t 
You  should  have  mastered  that  book  by  this  time." 

But  Ideala  was  disturbed. 

"I  can't  read,"  she  said.  "Tell  me  what  you  thought 
of  me  when  I  came  to  you  that  first  day  ?  I  fancied  you 
were  old.  And  -I  have  been  afraid  since,  in  spite  of  your 
cousin's  suggestion,  that  you  may  have  considered  it  odd 
of  me  to  introduce  myself  like  that." 

"  Oh,  it  is  quite  customary  here,"  he  answered.  "  But 
even  if  it  had  not  been,  we  can't  all  be  bound  by  the  same 
common  laws.  The  ordinary  stars  and  planets  have  an 
ordinary  course  mapped  out  for  them,  and  they  daren't 
diverge  an  inch.  But  every  now  and  then  a  comet  comes 
and  goes  its  own  eccentric  way,  and  all  the  lesser  lights 
wonder  and  admire  and  let  it  go." 

"  That  would  be  very  fine  for  us  if  only  we  were  comets 
among  the  stars,"  she  said, 

"Oh,  you  might  condescend  to  claim  a  kindred  with 
them,"  he  answered  lightly. 

"The  only  heavenly  body  I  ever  feel  akin  to  is  one  of 
those  meteors  that  flash  and  fall,"  she  said.  "  They  go 
their  own  way,  too,  do  they  not?  and  are  lost." 

"There  is  no  question  of  being  lost  here,"  he  interposed. 
"  The  most  scrupulous  have  made  an  exception  in  favor  of 
one  person,  and  the  world  has  not  blamed  them.  After 
having  enduned  so  much  you  are  entitled  to  some  relaxa- 
tion. I  should  do  as  I  liked  now,  if  I  were  you." 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly.  It  seemed  as  if  he  were 
not  expressing  himself,  but  trying  the  effect  of  what  he 
said  upon  her. 

He  was  sitting  in  his  usual  place  now,  drawing  figures 
on  the  blotting  pad. 

"You  have  read,  I  suppose?  "he  added,  after  a  pause, 
and  without  looking  up. 

"I  wish  I  had  never  read  anything,"  she  exclaimed 
passionately.  "  I  wish  I  could  neither  read,  write,  nor 
think." 


110  IDEALA. 

But  the  trouble  now  was,  if  only  she  could  have  recog- 
nized it,  that  she  did  not  think  ;  she  only  felt. 

She  got  up  and  went  to  the  mantel-piece  ;  he  remained 
•where  he  was,  sitting  with  his  back  to  her.  Presently  she 
began  to  look  at  the  china,  absently  at  first,  but  afterward 
with  interest.  There  were  some  new  specimens,  just  un- 
packed, and  all  crowded  together. 

"  What  a  lovely  lotus-leaf,"  she  said  at  last.  "Satsuma, 
I  suppose— no,  Kioto  ;  but  what  a  good  specimen.  And  it 
is  broken,  too.  What  a  pity  !  I  should  so  like  to  mend  it." 

"Would  you? "he  said,  rousing  himself.  "Then  you 
shall." 

He  went  to  one  of  the  cabinets  and  got  out  the  mate- 
rials, and  in  a  few  minutes  they  were  bending  busily  over 
the  broken  plaque,  as  interested  and  eager  about  it  as  if  no 
subject  of  more  vital  importance  had  ever  distracted  them. 
They  were  like  two  children  together,  often  as  quarrel- 
some, always  as  inconsequent ;  happy  hard  at  work,  and 
equally  happy  idling  ;  apt  to  torment  each  other  at  times 
about  trifles,  but  .always  ready  to  forget  and  forgive,  and 
with  that  habit  in  common  of  forgetting  everything  utterly 
but  the  occupation  of  the  moment. 

They  talked  on  now  for  a  little  longer,  but  not  brilliantly. 
They  were  both  considered  brilliant  in  conversation,  but 
somehow  on  these  occasions  neither  of  them  shone.  I  sup- 
pose when  two  such  bright  and  shining  lights  come  together 
they  put  each  other  out. 

Then  it  was  time  for  Idealatogo.  A  bitter  wind  met 
them  in  the  face  on  their  way  to  the  station,  and  before  they 
had  gone  far  Ideala  noticed  that  Lorrimer's  mood  had 
changed  again.  His  face  grew  pale,  his  steps  less  elastic, 
his  manner  cold  and  formal.  All  the  brightness,  all  the 
sympathy,  which  made  their  intimacy  seem  the  most  nat- 
ural, because  it  was  the  pleasantest,  thing  in  the  world  to 
Ideala,  had  gone  ;  he  was  like  a  man  seized  with  a  sudden 
fit  of  remorse,  disgusted  with  himself,  and  moved  to  repent. 

"  I  should  bear  with  your  husband,  if  I  were  you,"  he  said 


IDEALA.  Ill 

at  last,  breaking  the  silence.  ' '  He  behaves  like  a  brute,  but 
I  dare  say  he  can't  help  it.  A  man  can't  help  his  tempera- 
ment, and  probably  you  provoke  him  more  than  you  think." 

Ideala  was  surprised,  it  was  so  long  since  they  had  men- 
tioned her  husband. 

"  I  fear  I  am  provoking,"  she  answered  humbly.  "  But 
how  am  I  to  help  it?  I  have  tried  so  hard,  and  for  so  long, 
to  be  patient.  And  I  oaly  want  to  do  right." 

They  were  parting  then,  and  he  looked  down  at  her  in. 
silence  for  some  seconds,  and  when  Ideala  saw  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face  her  heart  sunk.  In  that  one  moment  she 
realized  all  that  his  friendship  had  been  to  her,  and  foresaw 
the  terrible  blank  there  would  be  for  her  if  it  should  ever 
end.  That  there  was  any  danger,  that  there  could  be  any- 
thing but  friendship  between  men  and  women  who  must 
not  marry,  had  not  even  yet  occurred  to  her.  Her  intimacy 
with  myself  had  prepared  the  way  for  Lorrimer,  and  mads 
this  new  intimacy  seem  also  perfectly  right. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  to-day?"  she  said.  "  What 
spirit  of  dissatisfaction  has  got  hold  of  you"? 

"  I  am  dissatisfied,"  he  said,  raising  his  hat,  and  brush- 
ing his  hand  back  over  his  hair.  Then  he  looked  at  her. 
"  Why  don't  you  help  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  How  can  I  help  you?"  she  answered.  "  I  don't  under- 
stand you." 

"  You  ought  to.  I  wish  to  goodness  you  did" — and  then 
his  face  cleared.  "  But  you  will  come  again,"  he  added,  in 
the  old  -way.  "  I  shall  expect  you  soon ." 

And  so  he  let  her  go  ;  and  Ideala  was  glad,  because  an 
unpleasant  jar  was  over.  She  did  not  trouble  herself  about 
his  private  worries  ;  if  he  wished  her  to  know  he  would 
tell  her.  Lorrimer  had  a  temper — but  then  she  had  known 
that  all  along  ;  and  Lorrimer  was  Lorrimer— that  was  all 
about  it. 


112  IDEALA. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

HE  let  her  go,  somewhat  bewildered,  and  not  understand- 
ing herself  or  him,  nor  caring  to  understand,  only  happy, 
dangerously  happy.  The  train  bore  her  through  a-i  on- 
chanted  region  of  brightness  and  summer,  and,  although 
the  power  of  thought  was  for  the  moment  suspended,  she 
•was  conscious  of  this,  and  her  own  delight  was  like  the  un- 
reasoning pleasure  of  earth  when  the  sun  13  upon  t. 

There  was  no  carriage  to  meet  her  at  the  station,  and  she 
set  off  to  walk  home.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  been 
alone  on  foot  in  the  squalid,  disorderly  streets  of  that  dingy 
place,  and  her  way,  which  she  was  not  quite  sure  of,  took 
her  through  some  of  the  worst  of  them.  They  were  filled 
with  loud-laughing,  uncleanly  women,  and  skulking,  hang- 
dog-looking men,  and  the  grime  clogged  atmosphere  was 
heavy  with  foul  odors;  bat  she  noticed  nothing  of  this.  The 
golden  glow  the  sun  made  in  his  efforts  to  shine  through 
the  clouds  of  smoke  might  have  been  a  visible  expression  of 
her  own  ecstatic  feeling,  and  she  would  have  thought  so  at 
any  other  time,  but  now  she  never  saw  it. 

In  a  somewhat  open  and  more  lonely  part  of  the  road 
ehe  met  a  tramp,  a  great,  rude,  hulking,  common  fellow, 
with  fine  blue  eyes.  Hs  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  road 
and  stared  at  Ideala  as  she  came  up  to  him,  walking,  as 
usual,  with  a  slight  undulating  movement  that  made  you 
think  of  a  yacht  in  a  breeze,  her  face  upraised  and  her  lips 
parted.  He  took  'off  his  cap  as  she  approached.  The  gesture 
attracted  her  attention.and,  thinking  he  wanted  to  beg  or  ask 
some  question,  she  stopped  and  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"  Well,  you  are  a  nice  lady!"  he  exclaimed. 

He  hadu't  the  gli  t  of  language,  but  she  saw  the  soul  of  a 
man  in  his  eyes,  and  she  understood  him. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  answered,  and  passed  on,  unsurprised. 

In  the  next  street  a  breathless  creature  came  running  af- 
ter her,  a  tawdry,  painted,  disheveled  girl.  She  stopped 
Ideala  and  stood  panting,  with  hot,  dry  lips,  and  eyes  full  of 


IDE  ALA.  113 

animal  suffering.  Her  clothes  exhaled  the  smell  of  some  vile 
scent  that  was  overpowering.  Involuntarily  Ideala  shrunk 
from  her,  and  all  the  joy  left  her  face. 

"I've  run" — the  girl  gasped—"  such  a  way— they  said 
you'd  gone  this  road.  I've  waited  about  all  day  to  catch  you. 
Come,  for  God's  sake  !" 

"But  where?" 

"  There's  a  girl  dying  " — and  she  clutched  Ideala's  arm, 
trying  to  drag  her  along  with  her—"  or  she  would  die  and 
have  done  with  it,  but  she  can't  till  she's  seen  you.  She' ve 
something  on  her  miad— something  to  tell  you.  Come,  my 
lady,  come,  for  the  love  of  the  Lord  and  the  Blessed  Virgin. 
No  haroi'll  happen  to  you." 

Ideala  made  a  gesture. 

"Show  me  the  way ,"  she  said.  "  But  you  don't  seem  able 
to  walk.  There's  an  empty  cab  coming.  Get  in  and  tell  the 
man  where  to  drive  to." 

They  stopped  at  a  row  of  many-storied  houses  in  a  low  by 
street.  A  stout,  elderly  woman  with  an  evil  countenance 
met  them  at  the  door.  She  began  some  speech  in  a  cringing 
tone  to  Ideala,  but  the  tawdry  girl  pushed  her  aside  rudely. 

"  Hold  your  jaw,  and  get  out  of  the  way,"  she  said.  "I'll 
show  the  lady  up." 

The  woman  muttered  something  which  Ideala  foitunately 
did  not  hear,  and  let  them  pass.  They  went  upstairs  to  the 
very  top  of  the  house,  and  entered  a  low  room,  furnished 
with  a  broken  chair  and  a  small  bed  only.  On  the  bed  lay  a 
girl,  who,  in  spite  of  disease  and  approaching  death,  looked 
not  more  than  twenty,  and  was  probably  two  years  younger. 
She  turned  her  haggard  face  to  the  door  as  it  opened,  and  a 
gleam  of  satisfaction  caused  her  eyes  to  dilate  when  she  saw 
Ideala.  They  were  large,  dark  eyes,  but  her  face  was  so  dis- 
torted with  suffering  and  discolored  by  disease,  it  was  im- 
possible to  imagine  what  it  once  had  been. 

"  Here  she  is,  Polly, "said  the  tawdry  one,  triumphantly. 
"  I  said  I'd  bring  her,  now,  didn't  I  ?" 

Ideala  knelt  down  by  the  bed. 


114  IDE  ALA. 

"  My !  Jbut  yon're  a  game  'un  !"  said  the  tawdry  one,  ad- 
miringly. You  ain't  afraid  of  catching  nothing  !  Now,  I'd 
have  asked  what  was  up  before  I'd  have  done  that;  and  I 
woudn't  touch  her  with  the  tongs,  nor  stay  in  the  room  \rith 
her,  was  it  ever  so.  You  just  holler  when  you  want  me, 
and  I'll  come  back  "  And  so  saying,  she  left  them. 

"  You  are  not  afraid  to  touch  me — you  don't  mind  ?'  said 
the  dying  girl,  when  Ideala  had  taken  off  her  gloves,  and 
knelt,  holding  her  hands. 

"  Afraid?  Mind?"  Ideala  whispered,  her  eyes  full  of  pity. 
"  I  only  wish  you  would  let  me  do  something  for  you." 

At  that  moment  they  were  startled  by  an  uproar  down- 
stairs. A  man  and  woman  were  quarreling  at  the  top  of 
their  voices.  At  first  only  their  tones  were  '  audible,  but 
these  grew  more  distinct,  and  in  a  few  seconds  Ideala  could 
hear  what  was  said,  and  it  was  evident  that  the  combatants 
were  approaching. 

"  I  tell  you  the  lady's  all  right,"  the  woman  Ideala  had 
seen  down-stairs  was  heard  to  shriek,  with  sundry  vile 
epithets.  "Polly's  dying,  and  she've  come  to  visit  her." 

"  Seein's  believin',"  the  man  rejoined  doggedly.  "Just 
show  me  the  lady  and  shut  up,  you  foul-mouthed  devil,  youl" 

The  door  was  flung  open,  and  there  stood  the  fat-harri- 
dan, and  towering  over  her  was  a  great  red-haired  police- 
man, who  seemed  both  relieved  and  abashed  when  he  saw 
Ideala. 

""What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  she  said,  rising,  and 
drawing  herself  up  indignantly.  "Don't  you  see  how  ill 
this  girl  is  ?  Such  an  uproar  at  such  a  time  is  indecent." 

The  woman  shrank  from  her  gaze  and  slunk  away.  The 
policeman  wiped  his  hot  face  with  a  red  handkerchief. 

"  I  saw  the  girl  fetch  you  here,  ma'am,"  he  said  apolo- 
getically, "  and  I  thought  it  was  a  trap.  It  ain't  safe  for 
a  woman,  let  alone  a  lady,  to  come  to  no  such  a  place.  I'll 
just  wait  and  see  you  safe  out  of  it." 

He  shut  the  door,  and  Ideala  heard  him  walking  up  and 
down  on  the  landing  outside. 


IDEALA.  115 

The  dying  girl  seemed  scarcely  conscious  of  what  was 
passing.  Ideala  looked  round  for  something  to  revive  her. 
There  was  not  even  a  cup  of  water  in  the  room.  She  knelt 
once  more  beside  the  bed,  and  raised  her  in  her  arms,  and 
let  her  head  rest  on  her  shoulder.  All  the  mother  in  her 
was  throbbing  with  tenderness  for  this  poor  outcast.  The 
girl  drew  a  long,  deep  sigh. 

"  Could  you  take  anything?  "  Ideala  asked. 

"  No,  lady,  not  now.  The  thirst  was  awful  awhile  ago, 
and  I  cried  and  cried,  although  I  knew  no  one  would  listen 
to  me,  or  come  if  they  heard.  They'd  rather  we'd  die 
when  we  get  ill.  It's  a  bad  thing  for  the  house." 

She  could  only  speak  in  gasps. 

"  And  what  have  you  had  ?  "  Ideala  asked. 

"  The  scarlet  fever,  ma'am.  There's  an  awful  bad  kind 
about,  and  I  caught  it  They  all  die  that  gets  it." 

Ideala  drew  her  closer,  and  laid  her  own  cool  cheek  on 
her  damp  forehead. 

"  Tell  me  why  you  wished  to  see  me,"  she  said. 

"  You  are  so  good,"  the  girl  answered—"  I  thought 
you'd  better  know — and  get— away  from — that  low  brute." 

Ideala  understood,  and  would  fain  have  stopped  the 
story,  but  it  seemed  a  relief  to  the  girl  to  speak,  and  so  she 
listened.  It  was  the  old  story,  the  old  story  aggravated  by 
every  incident  that  could  make  it  more  repulsive— and  her 
husband  was  the  hero  of  it. 

"  Shall  I  go  to  hell?"  the  girl  asked,  shrinking  closer. 

"  For  these  Christ  died,"  Ideala  murmured. 

The  words  flashed  through  her  mind,  and  the  meaning 
of  them  was  new  to  her.  Her  heart  was  wrung  for  the 
desolate  girl,  dying  alone  in  sin  and  sorrow  without  a 
creature  to  care  for  her— dying  alone  in  the  arms  of  a 
strange  woman,  with  a  policeman  outside  guarding  her. 
Ideala  cried  in  her  heart  with  an  exceeding  bitter  cry  : 

"  God  do  so  to  him,  and  more  also  1" 

"  Pray  for  me,  lady." 

But  Ideala  could  not  pray  with  a  cuwe  on  her  lips— and, 


US  IDEALA. 

besides,  the  power  to  pray  had  been  taken  from  her  for 
many  a  weary  day  before  that.  She  thought  of  the  police- 
man and  called  him  in. 

"  See,  she  is  dying  "  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  help- 
lessly ,  "  and  she  has  asked  me  to  pray  and  I  can't.  Will 
you?" 

And,  quite  simply  and  reverently,  as  if  it  had  been  part 
of  his  ordinary  duty,  he  took  off  his  helmet  and  knelt  down, 
a  great,  rough-looking  mau  in  a  hideous  dress,  and  prayed : 

"  Dear  Lord,  forgive  her  I" 

They  were  the  last  words  she  heard. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  people  seemed  to  have  deserted  the  house.  Even 
the  tawdry  one  had  disappeared,  and  Ideala  was  obliged  to 
lay  out  the  poor  dead  girl  herself,  and  make  her  ready  for 
decent  burial.  As  soon  as  she  could  Idfcve  the  place  che 
went,  escorted  by  the  policeman,  to  the  fever  hospital  to 
have  her  things  fumigated.  The  risk  of  infection  had  not 
troubled  her  till  she  remembered  the  likelihood  of  taking  it  to 
others,  but  as  soon  as  she  thought  of  that  she  took  the  neces- 
sary precautions  to  prevent  it.  She  sent  a  message  from  the 
hospital  to  her  maid,  telling  her  to  pack  up  some  things  and 
meet  her  at  the  station^in  time  for  the  mail  at  eleven  o'clock 
that  night.  She  had  thought  of  some  friends  who  lived  a 
nine-hours'  journey  f  rum  her  home,  and  had  determined  to 
go  to  them  for  a  time. 

She  wrote  to  husband  also  from  the  hospital. 

"  The  girl,  Mary  Morris,  died  of  scarlet  fever  this  after- 
noon in  the  house  to  which  you  sent  her  when  you  were 
tired  of  her,"  she  said.  "  I  was  with  her  when  she  died.  I 
am  going  to  the  Trelawneys  to-night ;  but  at  present  I  have 
formed  no  plans  for  the  future." 

During  the  first  few  days  of  her  stay  with  the  Trelaw- 
neys, she  just  lived  from  hour  to  hour,  not  thinking  of 
anything,  past,  present,  or  to  come  ;  but  out  of  this  apathj 


IDE  ALA.  11T 

a  desire  grew  by  degrees.  She  wanted  to  see  Lorriiner. 
She  could  speak  to  him,  and  she  was  sure  he  would  help  and 
advise  her.  She  wrote  to  him,  telling  him  she  particularly 
wished  to  see  him  on  a  certain  day,  and  asking  him  to  meet 
her  at  the  station,  adding,  by  way  of  postscript  : 

"  I  do  not  think  I  quite  know  what  you  meant  when  you 
advised  me  to  go  my  own  way  ;  but  if  any  wrongdoing 
were  part  of  the  programme,  I  should  not  be  able  to  carry 
it  out.  However,  I  feel  sure  that  you  would  be  the  last 
person  in  the  world  to  let  me  do  wrong,  even  if  I  were  in- 
clined to." 

She  knew  that  her  husband  was  away  from  hqme,  and 
her  intention  had  been  to  sleep  there  that  night,  and  go 
on  to  Lorrimer  the  next  morning ;  but  she  had  been  misin- 
formed about  the  trains,  and  after  many  changes  and  tedi- 
ous waits,  she  found  herself  alone  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
at  a  little  railway  junction,  with  no  chance  of  a  train  to 
take  her  on  for  several  hours ;  and  what  was  worse,  with- 
out money  enough  in  her  purse  to  pay  her  bill  if  she  went 
to  a  hotel.  The  waiting-rooms  were  all  closed  for  the  night, 
and  there  seemed  nothing  for  it  but  to  wander  about  the 
station  till  the  train  came  and  released  her.  She  told  her 
dilemma  to  an  old  Scotch  inspector  who  was  waiting  to  see 
what  she  meant  to  do.  He  gave  the  matter  his  best  con- 
sideration,  but  it  evidently  perplexed  him. 

"  If  you  was  a  box,"  he  said,  rubbing  his  chin  thought- 
fully, "  we  could  put  you  in  the  left-luggage  office." 

"  But  I  am  not  a  box,"  Ideala  answered,  as  if  only  the 
most  positive  denial  would  prevent  mistake  on  the  subject. 

It  was  raining  hard,  and  bitterly  cold.  Only  part  of  the 
platform  was  roofed  in,  and  every  now  and  then  a  gust  of 
wind  splashed  the  raindrops  into  their  faces  as  they  stood 
beside  Ideala's  luggage  in  a  circle  of  yellow  light  cast  up- 
ward by  a  lantern  which  the  inspector  had  put  on  the 
ground  at  their  feet. 

' '  There's  me  and  Tom  the  porter,"  he  said  at  last ; 
"  we've  got  to  wait  for  the  two-o'clock  down  and  the  four- 


118  IDEALA. 

o'clock  up.  Tom,  he'll  come  'ome  and  sit  over  tne  kitchen 
fire  with  me.  I  suppose,  now,  you  wouldn't  like  to  do 
that?" 

"Indeed  I  should  be  very  glad  to,"  Ideala  answered; 
"  that  is,"  she  added  quickly,  "  if  it  would  not  inconven. 
ience  you." 

He  made  an  inexplicable  gesture,  and  seemed  to  consider 
the  matter  settled. 

"  Til  just  put  this  here  luggage  in  the  office,"  he  said, 
shouldering  a  box  and  taking  up  a  portmanteau  ;  but  he 
muttered,  as  he  went :  "  It's  a  pity,  now,  you  wasn't  lug- 
gage." 

Ideala  followed  him  meekly  from  the  luggage-office  out 
into  the  lane,  and  down  a  country  path  to  a  little  cottage. 
The  door  opened  into  the  kitchen,  and  a  young  man  in  a 
porter's  uniform  was  sitting  over  a  cheery  fire  reading  a 
newspaper  by  the  light  of  a  tallow  candle.  The  kitchen  was 
large  for  the  size  of  the  house.  Besides  the  door  they  had 
entered  by,  there  were  two  others,  both  closed.  The  walls 
were  paneled  from  floor  to  ceiling  with  wood  darkened  by 
age.  Several  of  the  panels  were  .doors  of  cupboards  that 
projected  slightly  from  the  wall,  and  shelves  had  been 
sunk  in  flush  with  it,  and  placed  angle- wise  in  the  corners. 
The  shelves  were  covered  with  old  china.  There  was  a 
row  of  brass  candlesticks  of  good  design  on  the  high  mantle- 
piece,  more  china  stood  behind  them.  On  a  panel  above  the 
mantelpiece  a  curious  design  of  dogs  and  horses  in  a  wood 
had  been  carved  with  much  patience  and  some  skill.  The 
furniture  of  the  place  was  an  old  oak  table  standing  in  the 
window— the  window  itself  had  a  deep  sill,  on  which  \va* 
arranged  a  row  of  flowerpots,  from  which  a  faint  perfume 
came  at  intervals — a  long  narrow  oak  chest,  carved  and 
polished,  with  the  date  1700  on  the  side  of  it,  a  settle,  and 
a  dresser  covered  with  the  ordinary  crockery  used  by  poor 
people.  The  brick  floor  was  rudded  and  sanded,  the  hearth- 
stone was  yellow,  and  the  part  under  the  grate  was  white. 
Sne  high-backed,  old-fashioned  chair  stood  on  either  aid* 


IDEALA.  119 

&f  the  hearth.  Tom,  the  porter,  was  sitting  in  one  of  them, 
and  at  his  elbow  way  a  small  round  table  with  a  pipe,  to- 
bacco jar,  and  two  or  three  books  upon  it.  A  square  table 
in  the  middle  of  the  room  was  laid  out  for  supper,  with  a 
dish,  two  plates,  a  beer  mug,  and  a  half  a  loaf  of  bread. 
Some  potatoes  were  roasting  on  the  hob. 

•'  The  old  woman's  asleep,  I  expects.  You'll  mind  and 
not  make  a  noise,"  the  inspector  said  to  Ideala,  as  if  he 
were  warning  a  child  to  be  good. 

Tom,  the  porter,  rose,  and  gazed  at  the  lady  with  his 
mouth  open  in  a  state  of  astonishment  that  was  justified 
by  the  time  and  place  of  her  advent ;  but  he  offered  her  his 
chair  with  the  courtesy  of  a  gentleman,  and  the  old  inspec- 
tor bid  her  make  herself  at  home,  which  she  did  by  remov- 
ing her  hat  and  wraps  and  taking  off  her  gloves.  In  a 
higher  sphere  of  life  these  two  men  would  have  stared  her 
out  of  countenance  ;  but  Tom,  the  porter,  and  the  old  in- 
spector, not  from  want  of  appreciation,  but  from  the 
refinement  that  seems  natural  to  people  who  come  of  an  old 
stock,  whatever  their  station,  and  have  had  china  and 
carved  oak  in  their  possession  from  one  generation  to  an- 
other—forebore  even  to  look  at  her  lest  she  should  be  em- 
barrassed by  their  curiosity.  They  did  the  honors  of  the 
house  with  dignity,  and  without  vulgar  apology  fora  gtate 
of  things  that  was  natural  to  them,  and  Ideala  at  once 
adapted  herself  to  the  circumstances,  and  burned  her 
fingers  while  attending  to  the  baked  potatoes,  which  Tom 
had'somewhat  neglected. 

She  always  declared  afterward  that  there  was  nothing  so 
good  in  the  world  as  baked  potatoes  and  salt,  provided  the 
company  was  agreeable ;  and  now  and  then  she  would 
thrill  us  with  reminiscences  of  that  evening's  entertain- 
ment— with  wonderful  accounts  of  railway  accidents — and 
of  one  in  particular  that  happened  on  a  pitch  dark  night 
when  fires  had  to  be  made  to  light  the  workers  as  they 
toiled  fearfully  among  the  wreck  of  the  trains,  searching 
for  the  mangled  and  mutilated,  the  dying  and  the 


130  IDE  ALA. 

de-ad,  while  the  air  was  filled  with  horrid  shrieks  and 
groans. 

For  it  seems  these  three,  when  they  had  finished  the 
baked  potatoes,  drew  their  chairs  to  the  fire  and  talked. 
And  one  can  well  imagine  what  Ideala's  stories  were—  her 
tales  of  the  Japanese  with  whom  she  had  lived  ;  of  Chinese 
prisons  into  which  she  had  peeped  ;  of  earthquakes,  tor- 
nadoes and  shipwrecks,  and  other  perils  by  land  and  sea, 
all  told  in  a  voice  that  thrilled  you,  whatever  it  said.  Tom, 
the  porter,  and  the  old  Scotch  inspector  were  in  luck  that 
night,  and  they  knew  it.  When  at  last  it  was  time  for 
Ideala  to  go,  and  in  return  for  her  thanks  for  his  kind 
hospitality,  and  the  contents  of  her  purse,  which  had  rather 
more  in  it  than  she  had  fancied,  the  inspector  expressed 
his  appreciation  with  an  earnest  smack  : 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "you're  rare  good  company.  I  shan't 
mind  when  you  come  along  this  way  again." 

The  train  was  late  in  arriving,  and  she  had  only  time  to 
rush  up  to  the  house,  change  her  dress,  and  return  to  the 
station  to  catch  the  one  by  which  she  had  asked  Lorrimer 
to  meet  her.  Perhaps  it  was  the  thought  of  what  she  had 
come  to  tell  him  that  made  her  heart  beat  nervously  as  the 
train  drew  up  at  her  destination,  and  she  leaned  forward 
to  look  for  him  among  the  people  on  the  platform.  She 
looked  in  vain— he  was  not  there.  Something,  of  course, 
had  happened  to  detain  him  ;  doubtless  he  had  sent  a  mes- 
sage to  explain.  She  waited  a  little,  but  nobody  appeared 
to  be  looking  for  her.  Then  she  left  the  station  and  walked 
in  the  direction  of  the  hospital,  thinking  he  had  missed  the 
train,  and  she  should  probably  meet  him  on  the  way.  Her 
nervousness  increased  as  she  went.  She  was  not  used  to 
be  alone  in  crowded  streets,  and  she  began  to  feel  faint  and 
bewildered.  Her  heart  seemed  to  stop  whenever  she  saw  a 
fair- headed  man,  but  she  reached  the  hospital  at  last,  and 
no  Lorrimer  met  her.  Then  a  new  fear  disturbed  her. 
Perhaps  he  was  ill.  She  went  up  to  the  door,  and  there, 
just  coming  oat,  Lorrimer's  secretary  met  her. 


IDEALA.  121 

"  I  was  just  coming  to  meet  you,  madame,"  he  said  ;  "  I 
am  sorry  I  am  too  late.  Mr.  Lorrimer  has  been  detained 
by  visitors,  and  sent  me  to  apologize  for  his  absence.  If 
you  will  be  so  good  as  to  come  to  the  library,  he  will  join 
you  there  as  soon  as  he  is  disengaged." 

When  she  was  settled  in  the  library,  a  servant  brought 
her  books  to  her.  She  had  not  come  to  read,  but  work 
was  the  daily  habit  of  her  life,  and  she  went  on  now,  me- 
chanically, but  carefully  as  usual,  though  with  a  curious 
sinking  of  the  heart,  and  benumbing  sense  of  loss  and  pain. 
As  she  came  along  in  the  train  she  had  been  thinking  how 
ic  would  amuse  Lorrimer  to  hear  of  her  night's  adventure, 
and  of  the  relief  it  would  be  to  tell  him  of  all  the  other 
things  she  had  come  to  tell ;  but  now  she  felt  like  one  bid- 
den to  a  bridal,  and  brought  to  a  burial.  People  were 
going  and  coming  continually  in  the  library.  A  gentleman 
sat  at  a  table  near  her,  busily  writing.  Servants  went 
backward  and  forward  with  books.  Another  gentleman, 
came  in  and  looked  at  her  curiously,  and  then  went  away. 
She  began  to  feel  uncomfortable  and  wondered  what  was 
keeping  Lorrimer  so  long.  She  thought,  too,  of  leaving 
the  place  at  once,  and  going  back  by  an  earlier  train  than 
she  had  intended,  but  it  would  hardly  have  been  polite.  A 
servant  came  and  told  her  the  library  was  closed  to  visitor* 
at  two. 

"  I  am  waiting  for  Mr.  Lorrimer,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  in  that  case "  and  the  man  withdrew. 

The  name  was  an  open  sesame  to  all  j>art3  of  the  build- 
ing. 

At  last  he  came.    She  rose  with  a  great  sense  of  relief. 

"  Let  me  take  your  books,"  he  said. 

"  I  have  done  with  them,''  she  answered. 

And  without  another  word  he  led  the  way  to  his  own 
room. 

They  took  their  accustom',  d  seats. 

"lam  sorry  I  coul.i  riot  meet  you."  he  said.  ''I  hope 
you  do  not  think  me  rude.  Some  wretched  people  turned 


122  IDEALA. 

tip  at  the  last  moment,  and  wanted  to  see  everything.  Just 
look  a*  the  room  ! " 

Every  cabinet  seemed  to  have  been  ransacked,  and  treas- 
ures of  all  kinds  were  lying  about  in  most  admired  dis- 
order. Lorrimer  looked  round  him  desperately,  and  pushed 
his  hat  back  from  his  forehead.  Ideala  smiled.  It  was  so 
like  him  to  forget  he  had  it  on. 

Outside  a  heavy  thunder-cloud  gathered  and  darkened 
the  room.  Presently  big  drops  of  rain  splashed  against  the 
window,  and  it  began  to  lighten.  Long  claps  of  thunder 
rolled  and  muttered  incessantly  away  in  the  distance,  and 
every  now  and  then  one  would  burst  directly  above  them, 
as  it  seemed,  with  splendid  effect. 

Lorrimer  looked  up  at  the  window  straight  before  him, 
and  played  with  a  pen  ;  aud  Ideala,  half-turning  her  back 
to  him,  sat  silent  also,  watching  the  storm. 

There  were  some  high  houses  opposite,  of  which  only  the 
upper  stories  were  visible.  Two  children  were  playing  in 
a  dangerous  position  at  an  open  window  in  one  of  them. 
Above  the  houses  a  strip  of  sky,  heavy,  and  dark,  and 
changeful,  was  all  that  showed. 

Ideala  felt  cold  and  faint.  The  long  fast  and  fatigue 
were  -beginning  to  tell  upon  her.  She  was  nervous,  too ; 
the  silence  was  oppressive,  but  she  could  not  break  it.  She 
felt  some  inexplicable  change  in  her  relations  with  Lorri- 
mer which  made  it  impossible  to  speak.  Furtively  she 
watched  him,  trying  to  discover  if  he  felt  it  too.  The 
look  of  age  was  on  his  face,  and  it  was  clouded  with  dis- 
content. Anxiously  she  sought  some  sign  of  sickness  to 
account  for  it.  But.  no.  There  was  no  trace  of  physical 
suffering  ;  the  trouble  was  mental. 

"  You  are  not  looking  well,"  Lorrimer  said  at  last.  "  I 
suppose  you  have  been  starving  yourself  since  I  saw  you. 
You  have  had  no  lunch  to-day  again.  You  will  kill  your- 
self if  you  go  on  like  that;  I  was  speaking  about  you  to  a 
doctor  the  other  day.  He  said  you  could  not  fast  as  you 
do  without  taking  something— stimulants  or  sedatives." 


IDEALA.  123 

Ideala  winced. 

"  What  an  insulting  thing  to  say  !  "  she  exclaimed  in- 
dignantly. "  I  will  not  allow  you  to  adopt  that  tone  with 
me.  You  have  no  right  to  scold  me." 

"  I  have,  and  shall,"  he  retorted.  "  I  suppose  you  want 
to  kill  yourself.  Perhaps  it  is  the  best  thing  people  can  do 
who  hate  their  lives." 

"  I  don't  hate  my  life  ;  I  don't  want  to  die,"  she  rejoined. 

"  The  other  day  you  said  you  loathed  your  life." 

"You  are  accusing  me  of  inconsistency,"  she  said. 
"  You  !  who  are  in  two  states  of  mind  every  time  I  see 
you!"  She  got  up.  "And  I  do  mean  what  I  say,"  she 
resumed.  "  I  loathed  the  old  life,  but  that  is  done  with.  I 
am  living  a  new  life  now " 

He  turned  to  look  at  her,  red  chasing  white  from  his  face 
at  every  breath  ;  then,  yielding  to  an  irresistible  impulse, 
he  went  to  her,  grasped  her  folded  hands  in  both  of  his, 
and  looked  into  her  eyes  for  one  burning  moment.  The 
hot  blood  flamed  to  her  face.  She  was  startled. 

"  Don't  let  us  quarrel,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

"  Why  do  you  try  to  ?  "  she  retorted.  "  It  is  always  you 
who  begin." 

"  I  think  you  want  pluck,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  no  ;  not  that,"  she  answered. 

"Just  now  you  do." 

"  Then  I  think  you  want  discernment,"  she  retorted, 
with  spirit. 

And  so  they  went  on,  as  if  neither  of  them  had  ever 
heard  of  such  a  thing  as  conventional  propriety. 

Lorrimer  did  not  answer  that  last  remark.  He  was  stand- 
ing at  a  little  distance  from  her,  watching  her.  Ideala  was 
looking  grave. 

"  What  is  your  conscience  troubling  you  about  now?"  he 
asked.  "  I  never  listen  to  my  conscience  " 

"  I  don't  believe  you,"  she  answered  promptly. 

"  That  is  polite,"  he  observed. 

Then  there  was  another  pause. 


134  IDEALA, 

"  It  must  be  time  for  me  to  go,"  she  said  at  last. 

The  rain  was  still  falling  in  torrents. 

"  Oh,  no  I"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  you  mustn't  go  yet.  Your 
train  does  not  leave  for  another  hour.  Why  do  you  want 
to  go?" 

She  was  struggling  ~vith  the  button  of  a  glove  and  he 
•went  to  help  her,  but  she  repulsed  him,  half  unconsciously, 
as  she  would  have  brushed  off  a  troublesome  fly.  , 

The  gesture  irritated  him. 

"  I  cannot  believe  you  are  not  conscientious,"  she  said, 
•with  a  frown  of  intentness.  "  When  a  man  of  talent  ceases 
to  be  true,  he  loses  half  his  power."  , 

He  turned  from  h  :r  coldly,  sat  down  at  the  writing-table 
and  began  to  write. 

Ideala  was  still  putting  on  her  gloves. 

Outside,  the  rain  fell  lightly  now,  and  the  clouds  were 
clearing.  The  children  were  still  playing  at  the  open  win- 
dow of  the  house  opposite.  Lorrimer  had  often  been  obliged 
to  answer  notes  when  she  was  there  ;  she  thought  nothing 
of  that,  but  he  was  a  long  time,  and  at  last  she  interrupted 
kim. 

"Forgive  me  if  I  disturb  you,*'  she,  said  ;  "  but  I  am 
afraid  I  shall  miss  my  train." 

"  Oh,  pardon  me,"  he  answered,  jumping  up  and  looking 
at  his  watch.  "  But  it  is  not  nearly  time  yet.  I  cannot 
understand  why  you  are  in  such  a  hurry  to-day ." 

"  You  know  that  I  always  go  when  I  have  done  my 
work,"  she  said. 

"  You  have  done  unusually  early,  then."  he  replied,  "and 
I  wish  to  goodness  I  had."  H^ooked  round  the  room  pet- 
tishly, like  a  schoolboy  out  of  temper.  "  I  shall  have  to 
put  all  these  things  away  when  you  are  gone  ;  a  task  I  hate, 
but  nobody  can  do  it  but  myself." 

"  Why  wait  till  I've  gone?  Let  me  help  you,"  said  Ideala. 

His  countenance  cleared,  and  they  set  to  work  merrily, 
he  explaining  the  curious  histores  of  coins  and  cameos,  of 
ancient  gems,  ornaments  of  gold  and  silver,  and  valuable 


IDEALA.  135 

intaglios,  as  they  returned  them  to  their  places.  Both  for- 
got everything  in  the  interest  of  the  collection,  so  that, 
when  the  last  tray  was  completed,  they  were  surprised  to 
find  that  two  trains  had  gone  while  they  were  busy  and 
another  had  become  due,  and  there  was  only  time  to  jump 
into  a  hansom  to  catch  it. 

Lorrimer  was  still  irritable. 

"  Why  on  earth  does  a  lady  always  carry  her  purse  in  her 
hand  ?"  he  said  as  they  drove  along. 

Ideala  laughed,  and  put  hers  in  her  pocket. 

"  When  are  you  coming  to  go  on  with  your  work  ?"  he 
asked. 

"  I  will  write  and  fix  a  day,"  she  said. 

"  I  shall  be  away  a  good  deaj.  for  the  next  three  weeks," 
he  continued.  "  The  twenty-third  or  twenty-sixth  would 
be  the  most  convenient  days  for  me,  if  they  would  suit  you." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  answered,  and  hurried  down  the  plat- 
form, without  having  said  a  word  or  given  a  thought  to 
what  she  had  come  to  say. 

And  then  at  last  the  twenty-four  hours'  fasting,  fatigue 
and  mental  suffering  overcame  her.  A  little  later  she  was 
lying  insensible  oa  the  floor  of  her  room,  and  she  was  alone. 
The  servants  had  not  seen  her  enter,  and  there  was  not  a 
creature  near  her  to  help  her. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

IDEALA  was  unable  to  exert  herself  for  many  days  after 
this.  At  last,  however,  she  began  to  think  of  work  again, 
and  of  Lorrimer.  She  was  uneasy  about  him.  He  had 
not  been  himself  on  that  last  occasion.  Something  was 
wrong,  she  could  not  think  what,  but  she  felt  anxious ;  and 
out  of  her  anxiety  rose  an  intense  longing  to  see  him  again. 
So  she  wrote,  first  of  all  fixing  the  twenty-third  for  her 
visit ;  but  when  the  day  came  she  found  herself  unequal  to 
the  exertion,  and  wrote  again,  begging  him  to  expect  her 
on  the  twenty-sixth  instead. 


126  IDEALA. 

He  did  not  reply.  He  was  generally  overwhelmed  with 
correspondence,  and  she  had,  therefore,  begged  him  not  to 
do  so  if  the  days  she  named  suited  him. 

Up  to  this  time  she  had  never  heard  Lorrimer  mentioned 
by  any  one  ;  but  now,  suddenly,  his  name  seemed  to  be  in 
everybody's  mouth.  She  thought  of  him  incessantly  her- 
self, and  it  was  as  if  the  strength  of  her  own  mind  com- 
pelled all  other  minds  to  think  of  him  while  she  was  pres- 
ent, and  to  yield  to  her  will  and  tell  her  all  they  knew. 
For,  curiously  enough,  she  had  begun  to  want  to  know 
about  him.  I  call  it  curious,  because  she  was  so  confiding, 
so  unsuspicious,  and  also  so  penetrating,  she  never  seemed 
to  care  to  know  more  of  people  than  she  learned  from  in- 
tercourse with  them.  But  with  regard  to  Lorrimer,  she 
had  evidently  begun  to  distrust  her  own  judgment,  which 
is  significant. 

One  night,  at  a  dinner-party,  she  was  thinking  of  a  gra- 
tuitous piece  of  information  an  old  woman,  who  brought 
her  some  milk  on  one  occasion  at  the  Great  Hospital,  bad 
given  her.  Ideala  had  noticed  that  the  old  woman  had  a 
bad  cough,  and  had  asked  her,  in  her  usual  kindly  way,  if 
she  were  subject  to  it,  and  what  she  did  for  it,  remarking 
that  the  north-country  air  was  trying  to  people  with  deli- 
cate chests,  and  -warmer  clothing  and  greater  care  were 
more  necessary  there  than  in  the  south  ;  and  thereupon 
the  old  woman  had  launched  forth,  as  such  people  will 
upon  the  slightest  provocation,  with  minute  details  of  her 
own  sufferings,  and  the  sufferings  of  all  the  people  she 
ever  knew,  from  "  the  bronchitis,"  during  the  winter  and 
spring,  Mr.  Lorrimer  being  included  among  the  number. 

"Does  Mr.  Lorrimer  suffer  in  that  way?"  Ideala  had 
asked,  with  interest. 

"Indeed,  yes,"  was  the  answer,  given  with  many  shak- 
ings of  the  head  and  that  air  of  importance  and  pleasure 
which  vulgar  bearers  of  bad  news  assume.  "  He  was  very 
bad  in  the  spring.  He  coughed  so  as  never  was,  and  had 
to  give  in  at  last  and  keep  his  room,  which  he  should  have 


IDE  A  LA.  127 

done  at  first ;  but  it  takes  a  deal  to  make  him  give  in ,  for 
he  takes  no  care  of  hisself,  though  not  strong,  and  we  were 
in  a  way  1  Eh  !  but  it  would  be  a  bad  thing  for  this  place 
if  anything  happened  to  Mr.  Lorrimer  1"  ,, 

Ideala  gave  the  woman  half  a  crown. 

"  People  may  have  bronchitis  without  being  delicate," 
she  asserted.  "  Mr.  Lorrimer  is  very  kind  to  all  of  you,  I 
suppose  ?" 

"If  I  was  to  tell  you  all  his  good  deeds,  ma'am,"  the 
woman  said  impressively,  "I'd  not  have  done  before  to- 
morrow morning.  But  as  to  his  not  being  delicate,"  she 
continued— in  the  hope,  perhaps,  of  scoring  another  on  that 
point — "  why,  it  just  depends  on  what  you  call  delicate." 

Ideala  absently  gave  her  another  half  crown,  and  an- 
other after  that,  but  she  could  not  get  her  to  say  that  Mr. 
Lorrimer's  chest  was  strong.  Later,  when  Lorrimer  re- 
turned, and  they  were  both  at  work,  he  was  interrupted  in 
the  middle  of  some  cynical  remarks  on  over-population, 
and  the  good  it  would  do  to  check  it  by  allowing  the  spread 
of  epidemics  and  encouraging  men  to  kill  one  another,  by 
the  arrival  of  another  old  woman  in  great  distress. 

His  manner  changed  in  a  moment. 

"  I  am  afraid  he  is  worse,"  he  said  to  her,  most  kindly. 

She  could  only  shake  her  head. 

"  There  is  the  order,"  he  went  on,  giving  her  a  paper— 
"  get  him  these  things  at  once,  and  tell  him  I  will  come  as 
soon  as  I  am  disengaged  " 

When  they  were  alone  again,  Ideala  looked  at  Lorrimer 
and  laughed. 

"  Another  instance,  I  shrewdly  suspect,  of  the  difference 
between  theory  and  practice,"  she  observed. 

He  brushed  his  hand  back  over  his  forehead  and  hair,  a 
trifle  disconcerted. 

"  He  was  the  only  son  of  his  mother,  and  she  was  a 
widow,"  he  said. 

"  And  one  can  approve  of  capital  punishment  without 
having  the  nerve  to  see  it  inflicted,  I  suppose,"  Ideala  com- 


123  IDEALA. 

mented,  ' '  and  be  convinced  that  it  would  be  good  for  the 
human  race  to  have  a  certain  number  of  their  children 
drowned,  like  kittens,  every  year,  and  yet  not  be  able  to 
see  a  single  one  disposed  of  in  that  way  without  risking 
one's  own  life  to  save  it.  Verily,  I  have  heard  this  often, 
and  yet  I  think  I  am  more  surprised  to  find  it  true  tAan.  if 
I  had  never  been  warned  I  But  that  is  always  the  vray. 
Things  surprise  us  just  as  much  as  we  expect  them  to. 
When  we  went  up  the  river  to  Canton  and  saw  the  Pagoda, 
we  all  exclaimed,  '  Why,  it  is  just  like  the  pictures — river, 
and  junks,  and  all ! '  If  we  had  not  seen  the  pictures,  I  be- 
lieve we  should  scarcely  have  noticed  \£,  and  certainly  we 
should  not  have  been  surprised  at  all." 

' '  Haven't  you  done  being  surprised  yet  ?  "  Lorrimer  asked. 

"No.    Have  you?" 

"Quite.    Nothing  ever  surprises  me." 

"  I  have  read  somewhere,"  she  said,  trying  h?.rd  to  recall 
the  passage,  "  that  fast  men,  stupid  men  (I  think),  and 
rascals  profess  to  feel  no  surprise  at  anything." 

The  color  flew  over  his  face  ;  he  seemed  about  to  speak, 
but  took  up  his  pen  again  as  if  the  thing  were  not  worth 
the  trouble  of  a  word,  and  went  on  with  his  work.  The 
habit  of  treating  men  as  ideas  is  not  to  be  got  rid  of  in  a 
moment,  and  it  was  only  when  she  thought  it  over  a  fc  dinner 
this  eveaing  that  she  saw  anything  to  hurt  him  in  what 
she  had  said.  Now  that  she  did  think  of  it,  however,  it 
certainly  seemed  natural  that  he  should  object  to  being 
classed  in  any  category  which  included  fast  men,  stupid 
men,  or  rascals  ;  but  even  while  she  blamed  herself,  and 
credited  him  with  much  forbearance  in  that  he  had  allowed 
her  rudeness  to  pass  unpunished,  she  was  conscious  of  the 
existence,  in  that  substratum  of  thought  which  goes  on 
continually,  irrespective  of  our  will,  of  a  doubt  as  to 
whether  he  might  not,  after  all,  be  one  of  these— say,  a 
fast  man.  For  what  did  she  know  about  him  ?  Nothing,, 
except  that  his  manners  were  agreeable.  True,  Bhe  had 
heard  of  his  good  deeds,  and  there  13  never  smuke  without 


IDEAL.A.  1,'? 

fire  ;  but  a  man  may  balance  his  accounts,  and  many  met 
do,  in  that  way,  topping  up  the  scale  of  good  deeds  pre:ty 
high  when  the  bad  ones  on  the  other  side  threaten  to 
it ;  and,  seeing  that  shs  knew  nothing  definitely  about  his 
private  character,  suppose  she  had  been  deceived  in  hi:. t. 
But,  no!     The  thing  was  impossible.      And  just  as  c  : 
thought  it,  a  gentleman,  sitting  opposite,  one  whom  sV 
had  not  met  before>  looked  across  the  table  and  asked  her 
if  she  knew  Mr.  Lorrimer.     / 

"  I  have  seen  him,"  she  answered,  with  a  burning  bin. •," \t 
being  taken  unawares. 

"  He's  a  charming  fellow— don't  you  think  so?" 

"  Yes,  I  thinn  so,"  she  agreed,  with  an  indescribable 
sense  of  relief. 

And  the  next  day  a  young  clergyman  whom  she  stopped 
to  speak  to  in  the  street  began  at  once  about  Lorrimer. 

"  I  met  him  at  dinner  the  other  night,"  he  said.   "  I 
pose  you  know  him  ?   There  is  much  truth  in  '  birds  of  ?„ 
feather.'  He  fascinated  us  all  with  his  talk  of  art  and  liter;;-- 
tore.    He  gave  us  such  new  ideas — described  such  varied 
experiences,  and  all  with  such  grace  and  power." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  thoughtfully.  ' '  I  believe  he  is  bril- 
liant." 

"  Many  people  are  that,"  was  the  reply,  given  with  hearty 
enthusiasm;  "  but  Lorrimer  is  something  more.  He  is  good.- 
He  makes  you  feel  it,  and  know  it,  and  believe  in  him,  with- 
out ever  saying  a  word  about  himself." 

"Ah!"  she  sighed,  "  there  is  power  in  that.  What  lovely 
summer  weather  !  It  makes  me  dream.  Don't  you  love  the 
time  of  nasturtiums?  Their  pungent  scent,  and  their  colors? 
They  seem  to  penetrate  and  glow  through  everything,  and 
make  the  time  their  own." 

And  so  she  left  him. 

But  that  same  day,  an  old  gentleman,  who  came  from 
another  county,  and  looked  as  if  he  h:id  come  from  anoth  i 
century— an  old  gentleman  with  curious  wavy  hair,  parted 
in  tbe  middle,  who  worshiped  the  Idol  of  Days— the  past 


180  IDEALA. 

and  all  that  belonged  to  it— and,  for  evening  dress,  wore 
knee-breeches,  frilled  shirt,  black  silk  stockings,  and  dia- 
mond buckles  in  his  shoes  ;  and  had  a  bijou  house,  filled 
with  a  thousand  relics  of  his  Idol  of  Days,  where  noble  ladies 
were  wont  to  loll  aud  listen  to  him,  and  drink  tea  out  of  his 
wonderful  cups,  and  love  him— so  it  was  said — this  gentle- 
man called  on  Ideala.  He  came  to  charm  and  to  be  charmed ; 
and  he,  of  all  people  in  the  world,  the  one  from  whom  she 
would  least  have  expected  it,  although  she  knew  they  had 
met,  began  to  sing  Lorrimer's  praises. 

"  He  raises  the  tone  of  everything  he  is  engaged  upon," 
this  gentleman  said.  "  He  has  not  quite  kept  faith  with  me 
about  a  matter  he  promised  to  look  into  for  me  a  year  ago, 
but  doubtless  he  is  busy.  I  suppose  you  know  him?'' 

"  Yes,  I  know  him.  He  seems  to  be  very  much  above  the 
average. 

"Oh,  very  much  above  the  average,"  was  the  warm  re- 
sponse. "  He's  a  charming  fellow,  and  a  thoroughly  good 
fellow,  too." 

This  was  the  chorus  to  everything,  and  there  was  only  one 
dissentient  voice— that  of  a  man  who  admired  Ideala,  and 
was  a  good  soul  himself,  having  gone  out  of  his  way  to  pay 
her  trifling  attentions,  and  even  found  occasion  to  do  her 
some  small  acts  of  kindness .  He  began  with  the  rest  to  praise 
Lorrimer,  but  when  he  saw  he  was  doing  so  at  his  own  ex- 
pense, by  diverting  her  attention  from  himself  to  his  subject, 
he«somewhat  lowered  his  tone. 

"  Every  one  seems  to  like  Mr.  Lorrimer,"  Ideala  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,  he's  certainly  a  nice  fellow;  but  he  puts;  a  lot 
of  side  on." 

"And  well  he  may,  being  so  very  good  and  well-beloved," 
Bhe  answered,  smiling 

"So  spoiled  aud  conceited,  you  might  say,"  was  the  re- 
joinder; butsha  felt  that  there  was  jealousy  in  his  tone,  and 
only  laughed. 

"What  an  interesting  face  he  has,"  a  lady  remarked, 
who  was  having  tea  with  Ideala,  tetc-d-tetc,  one  afternoon, 


IDEALA,  181 

and  had  br«ught  the  conversation  round  to  Lorrimer,  as 
seemed  inevitable  in  those  days.  "  He  must  make  a  charm- 
ing portrait." 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  fine  face,"  Ideala  answered  dreamily — "a 
face  for  a  bust  in  white  marble;  a  face  from  out  of  the  long 
ago— not  Greek,  but  Eoman — of  the  time  when  men  were 
passing  from  a  strong,  simple,  manly,  into  a  luxuriously 
effeminate,  self-indulgent  stage ;  the  face  of  a  man  who  is 
midway  between  the  two  extremes,  and  a  prey  to  the  desire? 
of  both.  I  wish  I  had  been  his  mother." 

"  His  mother  was  a  noble  woman." 

"  I  know;  but  she  was  not  omniscient,  and  she  never 
could  have  understood  the  boy.  I  dare  say  he  was  not 
enough  of  an  ugly  duckling  to  attract  special  attention, 
and  with  many  other  chicks  in  the  brood  he  could  not  have 
more  than  the  rest,  and  yet  he  required  it.  He  ought  to 
have  been  an  only  child.  If  he  had  been  mine,  I  should 
have  known  what  his  dreaminess  meant,  why  he  loved  to 
wander  away  and  be  alone,  what  was  the  conflict  that  be- 
gan in  his  cradle— or  earlier.  Surely  a  mother  must  re- 
member what  there  was  in  her  mind  to  influence  her  child; 
she  must  have  the  key  to  all  that  is  wrong  in  him  ;  she 
must  know  ,if  his  soul  is  likely  to  be  at  war  with  his 
senses."  And  then  Ideala  forgot  her  listener,  and  burst 
out  with  one  of  those  curious  flashes  of  insight,  irrespective 
of  all  knowledge,  to  which  she  was  subject :  ' '  If  I  were 
only  a  soul  to  be  saved,  he  would  save  me  ;  but  I  am  also 
a  body  to  be  loved,  and  whether  he  loves  me  or  not,  he 
suffers.  It  is  the  eternal  conflict  of  mind  and  matter,  spirit 
and  flesh,  two  prisoners  chained  together— the  one  despis- 
ing the  other,  yet  ruled  by  him,  and  subservient  to  the 
needs  of  his  lower  nature." 

The  lady  stared  at  her. 

"You  know  Mr.  Lorrimer  very  well,  then,  I  suppose?' 
she  remarked. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Ideala,  awaking  from  her  trance, 
"  that  is  a  question  I  often  ask  myself.  And  sometimes  I 


132  IDEALA. 

say  I  do  know  him  very  well,  and  sometimes  I  say  I  don't. 
I  go  to  the  Great  Hospital  frequently  to  read  and  to  look 
•up  information,  and  he  helps  me.  He  is  a  man  who  makes 
an  instant  impression,  but  he  is  many-sided,  and,  now  you 
ask  me,  I  think,  on  the  whole,  that  I  do  not  known  him 
well.     I  should  not  be  surprised  to  hear  any  number  of  the 
most  contradictory  things  about  him." 
"  It  is  not  a  nice  character  to  have,"  the  lady  said. 
"  No,"  Ideala  answered,  "not  at  all  nice,  but  very  inter- 
esting." 

When  at  last  the  day  arrived  she  felt  an  unusual  im- 
patience to  see  him.  And  she  was  in  a  strange  flutter  of 
nervous  excitement.  Should  she  tell  him  of  those  tilings 
which  she  had  not  been  able  to  confide  to  him  on  the  last 
occasion  of  their  meeting?  Could  she?  No;  impossible  1 
but  she  must  see  him,  nevertheless.  The  desire  was  im- 
perative. 

The  servant  she  had  been  accustomed  to  see  met  her  at 
the  door  of  the  Great  Hospital.  She  fancied  he  looked  at 
her  peculiarly.  He  said  he  had  heard  something  about  Mr. 
Lorrimer  being  absent  that  day,  but  he  would  inquire. 

He  left  her,  and,  returning  in  a  few  minutes,  told  her 
Mr.  Lorrimer  was  not  there. 

"Did  he  leave  no  note,  no  message,  for  me?"  Ideala 
asked  faintly. 
"No,  madame,  nothing,"  was  the  reply. 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

FOR  quite  three  months  we  heard  nothing  of  Ideala,  but 
we  were  not  alarmed,  as  she  often  neglected  us  in  this  way 
when  she  was  busy.  At  last',  however,  Claudia  received  a 
note  from  her,  written  in  pencil,  and  in  her  usual  style. 

"  It  has  been  dull  down  here  to  a  degree,"  she  said.  "  I 
am  beginning  to  think  we  are  all  too  respectable.  Are  re- 
spectability and  imbecility  nearly  allied,  I  wonder?  But 
don't  tell  me;  I  don't  want  to  know.  All  the  trouble  in 


IDEALA.  133 

the  world  comes  from  knowing  too  much.  And  then,  I'm 
so  dreadfully  clever  !  If  people  take  the  trouble  to  explain 
things  to  me,  I  am  sure  to  acquire  some  of  the  information 
they  try  to  impart.  I  heard  of  the  block  system  the  other 
day.  It  sounded  mysterious.  I  like  mystery,  and  I  went 
about  in  daily  dread  of  having  it  all  made  plain  to  me  by 
some  officious  person.  One  day  I  was  sitting  on  a  rail  above 
the  line,  watching  the  trains.  A  workman  came  and  sat 
down  near  me.  It  is  very  hard  to  have  a  workman  sit 
down  near  you  and  not  to  talk  to  him,  so  we  talked.  And 
before  I  knew  what  was  coming,  he  had  explained  the 
whole  of  that  block  system  to  me:  Only  fancy !  and  I  may 
never  forget  it.  It  is  quite  disheartening. 

"  He  said  he  was,  a  pointsman,  and  I  asked  him  if  he 
would  send  a  train  down  a  wrong  line  for  fifty  pounds. 
He  said  fifty  pounds  was  a  large  sum,  rnd  he  had  a  mother 
depending  on  him.  The  people  here  are  delicious.  I  think 
I  shall  write  a  book  about  them  some  day. 

"  Have  you  felt  the  fascination  of  the  trains  ?  My  fa- 
vorite seat  here  is  a  lovely  sp  it  just  above  where  they  pass. 
I  can  look  down  on  them  and  into  them.  The  line  winds, 
rather,  through  meadows  and  between  banks,  where  wild- 
flowers  grow,  and  under  an  ivied  bridge  or  two,  and  by 
some  woods.  And  the  trains  rush  past — some  slow,  some 
fast ;  and  now  and  then  comes  one  that  is  just  a  flash  and 
roar,  and  I  cling  to  the  railing  for  a  moment  till  it  passes, 
and  quiver  with  excitement,  feeling  a,s  if  I  must  be  swept 
away,  I  look  at  the  carrage- windows,  too,  trying  to  catch 
a  glimpse  of  the  people,  and  I  always  hope  to  see  a  face  I 
know.  In  that  lies  all  thje  charm. 

"I  seem  to  be  expected  in  town,  and  some  Scotch 
friends  have  asked  me  to  pay  them  a  visit  en  route.  I 
should  like  to  go  that  way  above  everything  ;  one  would 
see  so  much  more  of  the  country !  But  I  daren't  go  to 
London  while  the  bishop  is  there.  He  is  making  a  dead 
set  at  me  again  (confirmation  this  time),  and  I  am  afraid 
if  he  heard  of  my  arrival,  he  would  do  something  rash — 


134  IDEALA. 

dance  down  the  Row  in  his  gaiters,  perhaps— which  might 
excite  comment,  even  if  people  knew  what  he  was  after." 

And  then  she  went  on  to  say  she  had  been  a  little  out  of 
sorts,  and  very  lazy,  and  she  thought  the  north-country 
air  would  brace  her  nerves,  and,  if  we  would  have  her,  she 
would  like  to  go  to  us  at  once. 

She  arrived  late  one  afternoon,  and  I  did  not  see  her 
until  she  came  down  to  the  drawing-room,  dressed  for 
dinner. 

I  had  not  thought  anything  of  her  illness,  she  made  so 
light  of  it,  and  I  was,  therefore,  startled  beyond  measure 
when  she  appeared. 

"Why,  my  dear!"  I  exclaimed  involuntarily,  "what 
have  they  done  to  you  ?  You're  a  perfect  wreck  1 " 

"  Well,  so  J  thought,"  she  answered  ;  "  but  I  did  not  like 
to  tell  you.  I  was  afraid  you  might  think  I  w^as  trying  to 
make  much  of  myself — wrecks  are  so  interesting." 

There  was  a  large  party  staying  in  the  house,  and  I  had 
no  opprtunity  of  speaking  to  her  thab  evening ;  but  the 
next  morning  she  came  into  my  studio  with  a  brave  as- 
sumption of  her  old  manner.  I  can  not  tell  how  it  was 
that  I  knew  in  a  moment  she  had  broken  down,  but  I  did 
know  it,  and  I  could  only  look  at  her.  Perhaps  something 
in  my  look  showed  her  she  had  betrayed  herself,  for  all  at 
once  her  false  composure  forsook  her,  and  sha  stretched 
out  her  hands  to  me  with  a  piteous  little  gesture : 

"What  am  I  to  do,"  she  said.  "  Will  it  always  be  like 
this?" 

But  I  could  not  help  her.  I  turned  to  the  picture  I  was 
working  at,  and  went  oa  painting  without  a  word.  By 
and  by  she  recovered  herself,  and  began  to  talk  of  other 
things. 

I  blamed  myself  afterward.  I  ought  to  have  let  her  tell 
me  then  ;  but  I  had  no  notion  of  the  truth.  I  only  thought 
of  her  husband,  and  I  selfishly  shrunk  from  encouraging 
her  to  speak.  Complaint  seemed  to  be  beneath  her.  But 
I  know  now  that  she  never  wanted  to  make  any  complaint 


IDEALA.  135 

of  him  to  me.  It  was  of  her  new  acquaintance  that  she 
longed  to  tell  me.  She  had  settled  the  difficulty  with  her 
husband  without  consulting  any  one.  She  had  returned 
to  his  house,  and  remained  there  as  his  wife,  nominally, 
and  because  he  particularly  wished  that  the  world  should 
know  nothing  of  the  rupture.  I  believe  that  she  had  done 
it  sorely  against  the  grain,  and  only  because  he  represented 
that  by  so  doing  she  would  save  his  reputation.  But  from 
that  time  for%vard  she  would  accept  nothing  from  him  but 
house-room,  for  she  held  that  [no  high-minded  woman 
could  take  anything  from  a  man  to  whom  she  was  bound 
by  no  tie  more  sacred  than  that  of  a  mere  legal  contract. 

She  was  very  quiet  when  she  first  came  to  us,  but  beyond 
that  I  noticed  nothing  unusual  in  her  manner,  and  after  the 
first  I  was  inclined  to  think  that  being  out  of  health  ac- 
counted for  everything.  My  sister  Claudia,  however,  was 
not  so  easily  deceived.  She  declared  that  Ideala  was  suffer- 
ing from  some  serious  trouble,  either  mental  or  bodily  ;  and 
as  the  days  wore  on,  and  there  was  no  change  for  the  bet- 
ter in  her,  but  rather  the  contrary,  I  began  to  share  Clau- 
dia's anxiety. 

Ideala  grew  paler  and  thinner  and  more  nervous.  She 
was  oftenest  depressed,  but  occasionally  had  unnatural 
bursts  of  hilarity  that  would  end  suddenly  in  long  fits  of 
brooding. 

It  seems  she  had  at  first  believed  that  Lorrimer's  absence 
was  an  intentional  slight,  and  the  humiliation,  coming  as 
it  did  upon  the  long  train  of  troubles  which  had  weakened 
her  already  both  in  body  and  mind,  nearly  killed  her.  She 
had  been  lying  for  weeks  between  life  and  death,  and  we 
had  known  nothing  of  it.  But  as  her  strength  returned  she 
began  to  think  she  had  been  unjust  to  Lorrimer.  She  could 
account  for  his  absence  in  many  ways.  He  had  been  called 
out  suddenly,  and  had  left  no  message  because  he  expected 
to  be  back  before  she  arrived,  but  had  been  detained ;  or 
perhaps  he  had  left  a  message  with  one  of  the  servants 
whom  she  had  not  seen— there  were  so  many  about  the 


136  IDEALA. 

place  ;  or  it  was  just  possible  that  he  had  never  received 
her  letter  at  all— a  certain  number  are  lost  in  the  post  eveiy 
day  ;  and  altogether  it  was  more  difficult  to  think  badly  of 
him  than  to  believe  that  there  had  been  some  mistake.  But 
still  there  was  a  doubtin  her  mind,  and  she  bore  the  torment 
of  it  rather  than  ask  for  an  explanation  which  might  only 
confirm  her  worst  fears. 

CHAPTER   XXIII. 

ABOUT  a  month  after  she  came  to  ns,  Ideala  caught  a 
bad  cold.  The  doctor  said  her  chest  was  very  delicate. 
There  was  no  disease,  but  she  required  great  care,  and  must 
not  go  out  of  doors.  Soon  afterward  he  ordered  her  to  re- 
main in  two  rooms,  and  my  sister  had  a  favorite  sitting- 
room  turned  into  a  bedroom  for  her.  It  opened  into  the 
blue  drawing-room,  and  we  took  to  sitting  there  in  the 
evening,  so  that  Ideala  might  join  us  without  change  of 
temperature.  Ideala  had  always  been  careless  about  her 
health,  and  we  expected  some  trouble  with  her  now,  but 
she  acquiesced  in  all  our  arrangements  without  a  word.  It 
was  easy  to  see,  however,  that  her  docility  arose  from  in- 
difference. The  one  idea  possessed  her,  and  she  cared  for 
nothing  else.  Did  he,  or  did  he  not,  mean  it?  was  the 
question  she  asked  herself,  morning,  noon  and  night,  till 
at  last  she  could  boar  it  no  longer.  Anything  was  better 
than  suspense.  She  must  write  to  him;  he  must  know  the 
truth  one  way  or  the  other. 

I  had  stayed  up  in  the  blue  drawing-room  to  read  one 
night  after  the  rest  of  the  party  had  gone  to  their  rooms 
but  my  mind  wandered  from  the  book.  Ideala  had  been 
very  still  that  evening,  and  I  could  not  help  thinking  about 
her.  Once  or  twice  I  had  caught  her  looking  at  me  intently. 
It  seemed  as  if  she  had  something  to  say,  but  when  I  went 
to  speak  to  her  she  answered  quite  at  random.  I  was  much 
troubled  about  her,  and  something  happened  presently 
whicli  did  not  tend  to  set  my  mind  at  rest.  The  room  was 
large,  and  ,  the  fire,  though  bright,  and  one  shaded  lamp 


IDE  ALA.  137 

standing  on  a  low  table,  left  the  greater  part  of  it  in  shadow. 
When  I  gave  up  the  attempt  to  read,  I  had  gone  to  the  far- 
ther end  of  it  to  lie  on  a  sofa  which  was  quite  in  the  shade. 
About  midnight  the  door  into  Ideala's  room  opened  and  she 
stood  on  the  threshold  with  a  loose  white  wrapper  round 
her.  She  coull  not  see  me,  and  I  ought  to  have  spoken  and 
let  her  know  I  was  there,  but  I  was  startled  at  first  by  her 
eudden  appearance,  and  afterward  I  was  afraid  of  startling 
her.  She  was  so  nervous  and  fragile  then  that  a  very  little 
might  have  led  to  serious  consequences.  I  did  not  like  to 
play  the  spy,  but  it  was  a  choice  of  two  evils,  and  I  thought 
she  had  come  for  a  book  or  something,  and  would  go  di- 
rectly, and  if  she  did  discover  me  she  would  suppose  me  to 
be  asleep.  She  walked  about  the  room,  however,  for  a  little 
in  an  objectless  way  ;  then  she  sunk  down  on  the  floor  with 
a  low  moan  beside  a  chair,  and  hid  her  face  on  her  arm. 
Presently  she  looked  up,  and  I  saw  she  held  something  ha 
her  hand.  It  was  a  gold  crucifix,  and  she  fixed  her  eyes  on 
it.  The  lamp-light  fell  on  her  face,  and  I  could  see  that  it 
was  drawn  and  haggard.  Claudia  had  maintained  latterly 
that  her  illness  arose  more  from  mental  than  from  physical 
trouble.  Did  this  explain  it?  And  was  it  a  religious  diffi- 
culty? 

A  weary  while  she  remained  in  the  same  attitude,  gazing 
at  the  crucifix  ;  but  evidently  there  was  no  pity  for  her 
pain,  and  no  relief.  She  neither  prayed  nor  wept,  and 
scarcely  moved  ;  and  I  dared  not.  At  last,  however,  a 
great  drowsiness  came  over  me ;  and  when  I  awoke  I 
almost  thought  I  had  dreamed  it  all,  for  the  daylight  was 
streaming  in,  and  I  was  alone. 

Later  in  the  day  when  I  saw  Ideala  she  had  just  finished 
writing  a  letter. 

"Shall  I  take  it  down  for  you?"  Tasked.  "  The  man 
\vi'l  come  for  the  others  presently." 

She  handed  it  to  me  without  a  word.  On  the  way  down- 
stairs I  saw  that  it  was  addressed  to  Lorrimer,  of  whom  I 
Iiad  not  then  heard,  but  somehow  I  could  not  help  think- 


138  IDEALA. 

ing  that  this  letter  had  something  to  do  with  what  I  had 
seefl  the  night  before. 

For  a  day  or  two  after  that  Ideala  seemed  better.  Then, 
she  grew  restless,  which  was  a  new  phase  of  her  malady, 
she  had  been  so  still  before  ;  and  soon  it  was  evident  that 
she  was  devoured  by  anxiety  which  she  could  not  conceal. 
I  felt  sure  she  was  expecting  some  one,  or  something,  that 
never  came.  For  days  she  wandered  up  and  down,  up  and 
down,  and  she  neither  eat  nor  slept. 

One  afternoon  I  went  to  ask  if  she  had  any  letters  for  the 
post.  At  first  she  said  she  had  not,  then  she  wanted  to 
know  how  soon  the  post  was  going.  In  a  few  minutes,  I 
told  her.  She  sat  down  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  and 
hurriedly  wrote  a  note,  which  she  handed  to  me.  It  was 
addressed  to  Lorrimer  ;  but  I  asked  no  questions. 

Two  days  afterward  a  single  letter  came  by  the  post  for 
Ideala.  I  took  it  to  her  myself,  and  saw  in  a  moment  that 
it  was  what  she  had  waited  for  so  anxiously  ;  the  cruel 
suspense  was  over  at  last. 

That  evening  she  was  radiant;  but  she  told  us  she  must 
go  home  next  day,  and  we  were  thunderstruck.  It  was  the 
depth  c.f  winter  ;  the  weather  was  bitterly  cold,  and  she 
had  not  been  out  of  the  house  for  months,  and  under  the 
circumstances  to  take  such  a  journey  was  utter  madness. 
But  we  remonstrated  in  vain.  She  was  determined  to  go, 
and  she  went. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

IN  a  few  days  she  returned  to  us,  and  we  were  amazed  at 
the  change  in  her.  Her  voice  was  clear  again,  her  step 
elastic,  her  complexion  had  recovered  some  of  its  brilliancy; 
there  was  a  light  in  her  eyes  that  I  had  never  seen  there 
before,  and  about  her  lips  a  perpetual  smile  hovered.  She 
was  tranquil  again,  and  self-possessed  ;  but  she  was  more 
than  that— she  was  happy.  One  could  see  it  in  the  very 
poise  of  her  figure  when  she  crossed  the  room. 


IDEALA.  139 

"  This  is  delightful,  is  it  not  ?  "  Claudia  whispered  to  me 
in  the  drawing-room  on  the  evening  of  her  return. 

"  Delightful,"  I  answered  ;  but  I  was  puzzled.  Ideala's 
variableness  was  all  on  the  surface,  and  I  felt  sure  that  this 
sudden  change,  which  looked  like  ease  after  agony,  meant 
something  serious. 

She  did  not  keep  me  long  in  suspense.  The  next  morn- 
ing she  came  to  my  studio  door  and  looked  in  shyly. 

"  Come  in,"  I  said.  "  I  have  been  expecting  you,"  and 
then  I  went  on  with  my  painting.  I  saw  she  had  some- 
thing to  tell  me,  and  thought,  as  she  was  evidently  embar- 
rassed, it  would  be  easier  for  her  to  speak  if  I  did  not  look 
at  her.  "  I  hope  you  are  going  to  stay  with  us  some  time 
now,  Ideala,"  I  added,  glancing  up  at  her  as  she  came  and 
looked  over  my  shoulder  at  the  picture. 

Her  face  clouded. 

"  I— I  am  afraid  not,"  she  answered,  hesitating,  and  ner- 
vously fidgeting  with  some  paint  brushes  that  lay  on  a 
table  beside  her.  "  I  am  afraid  you  will  not  want  me  when 
you  know  what  I  am  going  to  do.  I  only  came  back  to  tell 
you." 

My  heart  stood  still. 

"  To  tell  me.    Why,  what  are  going  to  do  ?  " 

"It  is  very  hard  to  tell  you,"  she  faltered.  "  You  and 
Claudia  are  my  dearest  friends,  and  I  can  not  bear  to  give 
you  pain.  But  I  must  tell  you  at  once.  It  is  only  right 
that  you  should  know — especially  as  you  will  disapprove." 

I  turned  to  look  at  her,  but  she  could  not  meet  my  eyes. 

""Give  us  pain  !  Disapprove  ! "  I  exclaimed.  "  What  on 
earth  do  you  mean,  Ideala  ?  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"An  immoral  thing,"  she  answered. 

"Good  heavens!"  I  exclaimed,  throwing  down  my 
palette,  and  rising  to  confront  her.  "  I  don't  believe  it." 

"  I  mean,"  she  stammered— the  blood  rushing  into  her 
face  and  then  leaving  her  white  as  she  spoke—"  something 
which  you  will  consider  so." 

"  I  can  not  believe  it,"  I  reiterated. 


140  IDEALA. 

"  But  it  is  true.    He  says  so." 

"  He— who,  in  God's  name?" 

"  Lorrimer." 

"And  who  on  earth  is  Lorrimer?" 

"  That  is  what  I  came  to  tell  you,"  she  answered  faintly. 

I  gathered  up  my  palette  and  brushes,  and  sat  down  to 
my  easel  again. 

"  Tell  me,  then,"  I  said  as  calmly  as  I  could. 

I  pretended  to  paint,  and  after  a  little  while,  still  stand- 
ing behind  me  so  that  I  could  not  see  her  face,  she  began  in 
a  low  voice,  and  told  me,  with  her  habitual  accuracy,  all 
that  had  passed  between  them. 

"And  what  did  you  think  when  you  found  he  was  not 
tnere  ?"  I  asked,  for  at  that  point  she  had  stopped. 

"At  first  I  thought  he  did  not  want  to  see  me,  and  had 
gone  away  on  purpose,"  she  answered;  "then  I  was  ill; 
but  after  that,  when  I  began  to  get  better,  I  was  afraid  I 
had  been  unjust  to  him.  There  might  have  been  some  mis- 
take, and  I  was  half  inclined  to  go  and  see,  but  I  was 
frightened.  And  every  day  the  longing  grew,  and  I  used 
to  sit  and  look  at  my  watch,  and  think  :  '  I  could  be  there 
in  an  hour';  or,  'I  might  be  with  him  in  forty  minutes.' 
But  I  never  went.  And  after  awhile  I  could  not  bear  it 
any  longer,  and  so  I  came  to  you.  But  the  thought  of  him 
came  with  me,  and  the  desire  to  know  the  truth  grew  and 
grew,  until  at  last  I  could  bear  that  no  longer  either,  and 
then  I  wrote  ;  and  day  after  day  I  waited,  and  no  answer 
camo  ;  ai  1  then  I  wag  sure  he  had  done  it  on  purpose,  but 
yet  I  could  not  bear  to  think  it  of  him.  And  I  be^an  not 
to  know  what  people  said  when  they  spoke  to  me,  and  I 
think  I  should  have  killed  myself;  but  I  come  of  an  old 
race,  you  know,  and  none  of  us  ever  did  a,  cowardly  thing, 
and  I  would  rather  suffer  forever  than  be  the  first— noblesse 
oblige.  I  don't  deserve  much  credit  for  that,  though,  for  I 
knew  I  should  die  if  ^  did  not  see  him  again— die  of  grief, 
and  shanie.and  humiliation  because  of  what  I  had  written, 
for  as  the  days  passed,  and  uo  answer  came,  I  was  afraid  I 


IDEALA.  141 

had  said  too  much,  and  he  had  misunderstood  me,  and 
would  despise  me.  If  I  had  only  been  sure  that  he  did  not 
want  to  see  me  again,  of  course  I  should  never  have  writ- 
ten ;  but  so  many  people  have  lost  their  only  chance  of  hap 
piness  because  they  had  not  the  courage  to  find  out  the  trutb 
iu  some  such  doubtful  matter  ;  and  I  did  believe  in  him  so 
— I  could  not  think  he  would  do  a  low  thing.  I  was 
hi  a  difficult  position,  and  I  did  what  I  thought  was  right; 
but  when  no  answer  came  to  my  letter  I  began  to  doubt, 
and  then,  in  a  moment  of  rage,  feeling  myself  insulted,  1 
wrote  again.  Yet  I  don't  know  what  made  me  write.  It  was 
an  impulse — the  sort  of  thing  that  makes  one  scream  when 
one  is  hurt.  It  does  no  good,  but  the  cry  is  out  before  you 
can  think  of  that.  All  I  said  was :  *  I  understand  your 
silence.  You  are  cruel  and  unjust.  But  I  can  keep  my 
word,  and  if  I  live  for  nothing  else,  I  promise  that  I  will 
make  you  respect  me  yet.'  I  never  expected  him  to  answer 
that  second  note,  but  he  did,  at  once.  And  he  offered  to 
come  here  and  explain — he  was  dreadfully  distressed.  But 
I  preferred  to  go  to  him." 

' '  A  nd  you  went  ?  " 

"  Yes.  And  I  was  frightened,  and  he  was  very 
kind." 

By  degrees  she  told  me  much  of  what  had  passed  at  that 
interview.  She  seemed  to  have  had  no  thought  of  any- 
thing but  her  desire  to  see  him,  and  have  hev  mind  set  at 
rest,  until  she  found  herself  face  to  face  with  him,  and 
then  she  was  assailed  by  all  kinds  of  doubts  and  fears  ;  but 
he  had  put  her  at  her  ease  in  five  minutes — and  in  five 
minutes  more  she  had  forgotten  everything  in  the  rapid 
change  of  ideas,  the  delightful  intellectual  contest  and  com- 
munion, which  had  made  his  companionship  everything  to 
her.  She  did  just  remember  to  ask  him  why  he  had  not 
answered  her  first  letter. 

He  searched  about  among  a  pile  of  newly -arrived  docu- 
ments on  his  writing-table. 

"There  it  is,"  he  said,  showing  her  the  letter  covere  I 


143  IDEALA. 

seith  stamps  and  postmarks.  "  It  only  arrived  this  morn- 
ing— just  in  Jime,  though,  to  speak  for  itself.  I  was 
abroad  when  you  wrote,  and  it  was  sent  after  me,  and  has 
followed  me  from  place  to  place,  as  you  see,  so  that  I  go- 
your  second  letter  first.  You  might  have  known  there  was 
some  mistake." 

"Pardon  me,"  Ideala  answered.  "I  ought  to  have 
known." 

And  then  she  had  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled,  and  never 
another  doubt  had  occurred  to  her. 

"But,  Ideala,"  I  said  to  her,  "you  used  the  word  '  im- 
moral '  just  now.  You  were  talking  at  random,  surely  ? 
You  are  nervous.  For  Heaven's  sake,  collect  yourself,  and 
tell  me  what  all  this  means." 

"  No,  I  am  not  nervous,"  she  answered.  "  See  I  my 
hand  is  quite  steady.  It  is  you  who  are  trembling.  I  am 
calm  now,  and  relieved,  because  I  have  told  you.  But, 
oh  !  I  am  so  sorry  to  give  you  pain." 

"  I  do  not  yet  understand,"  I  answered  hoarsely. 

"  He  wants  me  to  give  up  everything,  and  go  to  him," 
she  said  ;  "  but  he  would  not  accept  my  consent  until  he 
had  explained,  and  made  me  understand  exactly  what  I 
was  doing.  '  The  world  will  consider  it  an  immoral  thing,' 
lie  said,  '  and  so  it  would  be  if  the  arrangement  were  not 
to  be  permanent.  But  any  contract  which  men  and 
v.-omen  hold  to  be  binding  on  themselves  should  be  suffi- 
cient now,  and  will  be  sufficient  again,  as  it  used  to  be  in 
the  old  days,  provided  we  can  show  good  cause  why  any 
previous  contract  should  be  broken.  You  must  belief 
that  you  must  be  thoroughly  satisfied  now.  For  if  youi 
conscience  were  to  trouble  you  afterward— your  trouble- 
some conscience,  which  keeps  you  busy  regretting  nearly 
everything  you  do,  but.  never  warns  you  in  time  to  stop 
you— if  you  were  to  have  any  scruples,  then  there  would  be 
no  peace  for  either  of  us,  and  you  had  better  give  me  up  at 
once." 

"  And  what  did  you  say,  Ideala?" 


IDEALA.  143 

' « I  said,  perhaps  T  had.  I  was  beginning  to  be  frightened 
again." 

"  And  how  did  it  end  ?  " 

"  He  made  me  go  home  and  consider." 

"  Yes,  and  what  then?"  I  demanded  impatiently. 

"  And  next  day  he  came  to  me — to  know  my  decision 
— and-*-and — I  was  satisfied.  I  can  not  live  without 
him." 

I  groaned  aloud.  What  was  I  to  say  ?  What  could  I 
do?  An  arrangement  of  this  sort  is  carefully  concealed,  as 
a  rule,  by  the  people  concerned,  and  denied  if  discovered; 
but  here  were  a  lady  and  gentleman  prepared,  not  only  to 
take  the  step,  but  to  justify  it— under  somewhat  peculiar 
circumstances,  certainly  —  and  carefully  making  their 
friends  acquainted  with  their  intention  beforehand,  as  if 
it  were  an  ordinary  engagement.  I  knew  Ideala,  and 
could  understand  her  being  over-persuaded.  Something  of 
the  kind  was  what  I  had  always  feared  for  her.  Bui 
Lorrimer— what  sort  of  a  man  was  he  ?  I  own  that  I  was 
strongly  prejudiced  against  him  from  the  moment  she  pro- 
nounced his  name,  and  all  she  had  told  me  of  him  subse- 
quently only  confirmed  the  prejudice. 

"Why  was  he  not  there  that  day  to  receive  you?"  I 
asked  at  last. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  I  quite  forgot  about  that. 
And  I  suppose  he  forgot,  too,"  she  added,  "  since  he  never 
told  me." 

"Q  Ideala!"  I  exclaimed,  "how  like  you  that  is  !  It 
is  most  important  that  you  should  know  whether  he  in- 
tended to  slight  you  on  that  occasion  or  not.  It  is  the  key 
to  his  whole  action  in  this  matter." 

"  But  supposing  he  did  mean  to  be  rude  ?  I  should  have 
to  forgive  him,  you  know,  because  I  have  been  rude  to  him 
—often.  He  does  not  approve  of  my  conduct  always,  by 
any  means,"  she  placidly  assured  me. 

"  And  does  he,  of  all  people  in  the  world,  presume  to  sit 
in  judgment  on  you  ?  "  I  answered  indignantly.  ' '  I  always 


14  IDEALA. 

thought  you  the  most  extraordinary  persan  in  the  world, 
Ideala,  until  I  heard  of  this— gentleman." 

"  Hush!"  she  protested,  as  if  I  had  blasphemed.  "  You 
must  not  speak  of  him  like  that.  He  is  a  gentleman — as 
true  and  loyal  as  you  are  yourself.  And  he  is  everything 
to  me." 

But  these  assurances  were  only  what  I  had  expected 
from  Ideala,  and  in  no  way  altered  my  opinion  o£  Mr. 
Lorrimer.  I  knew  Ideala's  peculiar  conscience  well .  She 
might  do  what  all  the  world  would  consider  wrong  on  oc- 
casion; but  she  would  never  do  so  until  she  h-ul  persuaded 
horself  that  wrong  was  right— for  her,  at  all  events. 

"  He  may  be  everything  to  you,  but  he  has  lowered  you, 
lueala,"  I  resumed,  thinking  it  best  not  to  spare  her. 

"  I  was  degraded  when  I  met  him." 

"  Circumstaaces  can  not  degrade  us  until  they  make  us 
act  unworthily,"  I  rejoined. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  has  not  lowered  me,"  she  persisted;  "  quite 
the  contrary.  I  have  only  begun  to  know  the  difference 
between  right  and  wrong  since  I  met  him,  and  to  under- 
tand  how  absolutely  necessary  for  our  happiness  is  right- 
doing,  even  in  the  veriest  trifle.  And  there  is  one  thing 
that  I  must  always  be  grateful  to  him  for— I  can  pray  now. 
But  I  belied  myself  to  him,  nevertheless.  He  asked  me  if 
I  ever  prayed,  and  I  was  shy;  I  could  not  tell  him,  because 
I  only  prayed  for  him.  It  was  easier  to  say  that  sometimes 
I  revi'ed.  Ah!  why  can  we  not  be  true  to  ourselves  ?" 

"  But  I  can't  always  pray,"  she  went  on,  sorrowfully; 

"only  sometimes  ;  generally  when  I  am  in  church.    The 

thought  of  him  comes  over  me  then,  and  a  great  longing 

ve  Lim  beside  me,  kneeling,  with  his  heart  made  ten- 

and  his  soul  purified  and  uplifted  to  God  as  mine  is, 

possesses  me— a  longing  so  great  that  it  fills  my  whole 

b<nng,  and  finds  a  voice  :  '  My  God  I  my  God  1  give  him  to 

me !  ' " 

"  '  Angels  of  God  in  heaven  I  give  him  to  me  I  give  him 
to  me  ! ' "  I  answered  bitterly. 


IDEALA.  145 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  she  rejoined,  "  I  said  it  in  my  arro- 
gant ignorance.  I  did  not  understand,  and  this  is  different." 
"It  is  always  different  in  our  own  case,"  I  answered. 
«'  Do  you  remember  that  passage  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 
quotes  from  Lord  Bacon — '  Moral  qualities  rule  the  world, 
but  at  short  distances  the  senses  are  despotic '  ?  It  seems 
to  me  that  when  you  call  upon  God  in  that  spirit  you  are 
worshiping  Him  with  your  senses  only." 

"Then  I  believe  it  is  possible  to  make  the  senses  the 
means  of  saving  the  soul  at  critical  times,"  she  answered ; 
*'  and  at  all  events  I  know  this  :  that  I  more  earnestly  de- 
sire to  be  a  good  woman  now  than  I  ever  did  before." 
"  It  would  be  a  dangerous  doctrine,"  I  began. 
"Only  in  cases  where  the  previous  moral  development 
had  not  been  of  a  high  order,"  she  interrupted. 

I  felt  it  was  useless  to  pursue  that  part  of  the  subject,  so 
I  waited  a  little,  and  then  I  said  : 

"  Am  I  to  understand,  thon,  that  you  are  going  to  give 
up  your  position  in  society,  and  all  your  friends,  for  the 
sake  of  this  one  man,  who  probably  does  not  care  for  you, 
who  certainly  does  not  respect  you,  and  of  whom  you  know 
nothing?  Verily,  he  has  gained  an  easy  victory  t  But,  of 
course,  you  know  not  what  his  object  has  been  from  the 
first." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean/'  she  answered  indignantly  ; 
"  but  you  are  quite  wrong  ;  he  does  care  for  me.  And  if 
I  give  up  my  position  in  society  for  his  sake,  he  is  worth, 
it,  and  I.  am  content.  And  it  is  my  own  doing,  too.  I 
know  that  there  can  not  be  one  law  for  me  affd  another 
for  all  the  other  women  in  the  world,  and  if  I  break 
through  a  social  convention  I  am  prepared  to  adide  by  the 
consequences.  Do  you  want  to  make  me  believe  that  his 
sympathy  was  pretended,  that  he  deliberately  planned — 
something  I  have  no  word  to  express — and  would  have 
carried  out  his  plan  absolutely  in  cold  blood,  without  a 
spark  of  affection  for  me  ?  It  would  be  hard  to  believe  it 
of  any  man ;  it  is  impossible  to  believe  it  of  him.  He 


IDEALA. 


is  a  man  of  strong  passions,  if  you  will,  but  of  noble 
purpose  ;  and  if  I  make  a  sacrifice  for  him,  he  will  be 
making  one  for  me  also.  He  may  have  been  betrayed  at 
times  by  grief,  or  other  mental  pain,  which  weakened 
his  moral  nature  for  the  moment,  and  left  him  at  the 
mercy  of  bad  impulses  ;  but  I  can  believe  such  impulses 
were  isolated,  and  any  action  they  led  him  into  was  bitterly 
repented  of  ;  and  no  one  will  ever  make  me  alter  my  con- 
viction that  I  wronged  him  when  I  doubted  him,  even  for 
a  moment." 

"  That  is  all  very  well,  Ideala,"  I  said,  trying  not  to 
irritate  her  by  direct  opposition,  "  if  you  appeared  to  him 
as  you  appear  to  me.  Do  you  think  you  did  ?  Was  there 
anything  in  you  conduct  that  might  have  given  him  a  low 
estimate  of  your  character  to  begin  with?  Anything  that 
might  have  led  him  to  doubt  your  honesty,  and  think, 
when  you  made  your  confession,  that  you  were  trying  to 
get  up  a  little  play  in  which  you  intended  him  to  take  a 
leading  part  ?  That  you  merely  wished  to  ease  your  mind 
from  some  inevitable  sense  of  shame  in  wrong-doing  by 
finding  an  excuse  for  yourself  to'  begin  with—  an  excuse  by 
which  you  would  excite  his  interest  and  sympathy,  and 
save  yourself  from  his  contempt  ?  " 

"Ohl"  she  exclaimed,   "could    he—  could    any  one- 
think  such  a  thing  possible  ?" 

"  Such  things  are  being  done  every  day,  Ideala,  and  a 

man  of  the  world  would  naturally  be  on  his  guard  against 

deception.    If  he  thought  he  was  being  deceived,  do  you 

think  it  likely  he  would  feel  bound  to  be  scrupulous?" 

"But  he  did  believe  in  me,"  she  declared  passionately. 

"  He  pretended  to  ;  it  was  part  of  the  play.      You  see, 

he  only  kept   it  up  until  he  thoroughly  understood  you, 

and  then  his  real  feelings  appeared,  and  he  was  rude  to 

you.    For  I  call  his  absence  on  that  occasion  distinctly 

rude,  and  intentionally  so  too,  since  he  sent  no  apology." 

"  He  was  only  rude  to  me  to  save  me  from  myself,  then, 
as  Lancelot  w  as  rude  to  Elaine,"  she  answered. 


IDEALA.  147 

"  Or  is  it  not  just  possible  that  he  was  disappointed  when 
he  found  you  better  than  he  had  supposed  ?  that  he  felt  he 
had  wasted  his  time  for  nothing,  and  was  irritated " 

She  interrupted  me. 

"  I  forgive  you,"  she  said,  "  because  you  do  not  know 
him.  But  I  shall  never  convince  you.  You  are  preju- 
diced. You  do  not  think  ill  of  me  ;  why  do  you  think  ill 
of  him  ?" 

I  made  no  answer,  and  she  was  silent  for  a  little.  Then 
she  began  again,  recurring  to  the  point  at  issue  : 

"  If  he  did  slight  me  on  that  occasion,"  she  said — "  and 
I  maintain  that  he  did  not — but  if  he  did,  it  was  acciden- 
tally done." 

"  The  evidence  is  against  him,"  I  answered  dryly. 

"Many  innocent  persons  have  suffered  because  it  was," 
she  said,  with  confidence. 

"You  are  infatuated,"  I  answered  roughly.  And  then 
my  heart  sent  up  an  exceeding  great  and  bitter  cry ; 
"Ideala  1  Ideala  !  how  did  it  ever  come  to  this?" 

She  was  silent.  But  her  eyes  were  bright  once  more, 
her  figure  was  erect,  there  was  new  life  in  her — I  could  see 
that— and  never  a  doubt.  She  was  satisfied.  She  was  happy. 

"  Must  I  give  you  up?"  she  said  at  last,  tentatively. 

"  No,  you  must  give  him  up,"  I  answered. 

"  Ah,  that  is  impossible  1"  she  cried.  "We  were  made 
for  each  other.  We  can  not  live  apart." 

"  Ideala,"  I  exclaimed,  exasperated,  "  he  never  believed 
in  you^  He  thought  you  were  as  so  many  women  of  our 
set  are,  and  he  showed  it,  if  only  you  could  have  under- 
stood, when  you  saw  him  at  the  hospital  on  that  last  occa- 
sion. You  felt  that  there  was  some  change,  as  you  say 
yourself,  and  that  was  it.  You  talked  to  him  of  truth, 
then,  and  it  irritated  him  as  the  devil  quoting  Scripture 
might  be  supposed  to  irritate  ;  and  when  you  went  back 
again  he  showed  what  he  thought  of  you  by  his  unex- 
plained absence.  He  thought  you  were  not  worth  con« 
sideration,  and  he  gave  you  none." 


148  IDEALA. 

"  It  would  have  been  paying  himself  a  very  poor  compli- 
ment if  he  had  thought  that  only  a  corrupt  woman  could 
care  for  him,"  she  answered  confidently.  "But,  I  tell 
you,  I  am  sure  there  is  some  satisfactory  explanation  of 
that  business.  I  only  wish  I  had  remembered  to  ask  for  it, 
that  I  might  satisfy  you  now.  And,  at  any  rate,"  she 
added,  "  whatever  he  may  have  thought,  he  knows  better 
by  this  time." 

I  could  say  no  more.  Baffled  and  sick  at  heart,  I  left 
her,  wondering  if  some  happy  inspiration  would  come  be- 
fore it  was  too  late,  and  help  me  to  save  her  yet. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

I  WENT  to  consult  my  sister  Claudia.  The  blow  was  a 
heavy  one  for  her  aLo  ;  but  I  was  surprised  to  find  that 
she  did  not  share  my  contempt  for  the  person  whom  I  con- 
sidered responsible  for  all  this  trouble. 

"  Ideala  is  no  common  character  herself,"  Claudia 
argued,  "and  it  isn't  likely  that  a  common  character 
would  fascinate  her  as  this  man  has  done." 

"  Will  you  speak  to  her,  Claudia,  and  see  what  your  in- 
fluence will  do  ?  " 

"It  is  no  use  my  speaking  to  her,"  she  answered,  dis- 
consolately. "Ideala  is  a  much  cleverer  woman  than  I 
am.  She  would  make  me  laugh  at  my  own  advice  in  five 
minutes.  And,  besides,  if  she  be  infatuated,  as  you  say 
she  is,  she  will  be  only  too  glad  to  be  allowed  to  talk  about 
him  and  that  will  strengthen  her  feeling  for  him.  No. 
She  has  chosen  you  for  her  confidant,  and  you  had  better 
talk  to  her  yourself— and  may  you  succeed  !  "  she  added, 
laying  her  head  on  the  table  beside  which  she  was  sitting, 
and  giving  way  to  a  burst  of  grief. 

I  tried  to  comfort  her,  but  I  had  little  hope  myself,  and  I 
could  not  speak  at  all  confidently. 

"  I  believe,"  Claudia  said,  before  we  parted,  "  that  there 
id  nothing  for  her  now  but  a  choice  of  two  evils.  If  she 


IDEALA.  149 

gives  him  up.  she  will  never  care  for  anything  again,  and 
if  she  does  not,  she  will  have  done  an  unjustifiable  thing  ; 
and  life  after  that  for  such  a  woman  as  Ideala  would  be 
like  one  of  those  fairy  gifts  which  were  bestowed  subject  to 
some  burdensome  condition  that  made  the  good  of  them, 
null  and  void." 

I  did  not  meet  Ideala  again  until  the  evening,  and  then  I 
was  not  sorry  to  see  that  her  manner  was  less  serene.  It 
was  just  possible  that  she  had  been  thinking  over  what  I 
had  said,  and  that  some  of  the  doubts  I  had  suggested  were 
beginning  to  disturb  her  perfect  security. 

After  dinner  she  brought  the  conversation  round  to  those 
social  laws  which  govern  our  lives  arbitrarily.  I  did  not 
see  what  she  was  driving  at,  neither  did  the  good  old 
bishop,  who  was  one  of  the  party,  nor  a  lawyer  who  was 
also  present. 

"  You  want  to  know  something,"  said  the  latter.  "What 
is  it  ?  You  must  state  your  case  clearly." 

"  I  want  to  know  if  a  thing  can  be  legally  right  and 
morally  wrong,"  Ideala  answered. 

"  Of  course  not,"  the  bishop  rashly  asserted. 

"  That  depends,"  the  lawyer  said  cautiously. 

'•If  I  signed  a  contract,"  Ideala  explained,  "  and  found 
out  afterward  that  those  who  induced  me  to  become  a  party 
to  it  had  kept  me  in  ignorance  of  the  most  important  clause 
in  it,  so  that  I  really  did  not  know  to  what  I  was  commit- 
ting myself,  would  you  call  that  a  moral  contract ! " 

"  I  should  say  that  people  had  not  dealt  uprightly  with 
you,"  the  bishop  answered  ;  ' '  but  there  might  be  nothing 
in  the  clause  to  which  you  could  object." 

"  But  suppose  there  was  something  in  the  clause  to  which 
I  very  strongly  objected,  something  of  which  my  conscience 
disapproved,  something  that  was  repugnant  to  my  whole 
moral  nature ;  and  suppose  I  was  forced  by  the  law  to 
fulfill  it  nevertheless,  should  you  say  that  was  a  moral 
contract !  Should  you  not  say  that  in  acting  against  my 
conscience  I  acted  immorally?" 


150  IDEALA. 

"We  all  fell  into  the  trap,  and  looked  an  encouraging  assent. 

"  And,  in  that  case,"  she  continued,  "  I  suppose  my  duty 
•would  be  to  evade  the  law,  and  act  on  my  conscience?  " 

The  bishop  looked  puzzled. 

"  I  should  only  be  doing  what  the  early  martyrs  had  to 
do,"  she  added. 

"  That  is  true,"  he  rejoined,  with  evident  relief. 

"  But  I  don't  see  what  particular  contract  you  are  think- 
ing of,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"  The  marriage  contract,"  Ideala  answered  calmly. 

This  announcement  created  a  sensation. 

The  lawyer  laughed  ;  the  bishop  looked  grave. 

"Oh,  but  you  can  not  describe  marriage  in  that  way," 
he  declared,  with  emphasis. 

"  Humph  I"  the  lawyer  observed  meditatively.  "  I  am 
afraid  I  must  beg  to  differ  from  your  lordship.  Many 
women  might  describe  their  marriages  in  that  way  with 
perfect  accuracy." 

"  Marriages  are  made  in  heaven,"  the  bishop  ejaculated 
feebly. 

"  Let  us  hope  that  some  are,  dear  bishop !"  Claudia 
sweetly  observed,  and  all  the  married  people  in  the  room 
looked  ' '  Amen"  at  her. 

"  I  think  an  ideal  of  marriage  should  be  fixed  by  law,  and 
lectures  given  in  all  the  colleges  to  teach  it,"  Ideala  went 
on,  "  and  a  standard  of  excellence  ought  to  be  set  up  for 
people  to  attain  to  before  they  could  be  allowed  to  marry. 
They  should  be  obliged  to  pass  examinations  on  the  subject 
and  fit  themselves  for  the  perfect  state  by  a  perfect  life.  It 
should  be  made  a  reward  for  merit  and  a  goal  toward  which 
goodness  only  could  carry  us.  Then  marriages  might  seem 
to  have  been  made  in  heaven,  and  the  blessing  of  God  would 
sanctify  a  happy  union,  instead  of  being  impiously  pro- 
nounced in  order  to  ratify  a  business  transaction,  or  sanc- 
tion the  indulgence  of  a  passing  fancy.  But  only  the  love 
that  lasts  can  sanctify  marriage,  and  a  marriage  without 
guch  love  is  an  immoral  contract." 


IDEALA.  151 

"  Marriage  an  immoral  contract  1"  the  bishop  exclaimed. 
"  Oh,  dear  I  oh,  dear  1  This  is  not  right,  you  know — this 
is  not  at  all  right.  I  must  make  a  note  of  this,  I  really  must. 
You  are  in  the  habit  of  saying  things  of  this  sort,  my  dear. 
I  remember  you  said  something  like  it  once  before  ;  and 
really  it  is  not  a  subject  to  Jake  about.  Such  an  idea  is 
quite  pernicious  ;  it  must  not  be  allowed  to  spread,  even  as 
a  joke.  I  wish,  my  dear,  you  had  not  promulgated  it,  even 
in  that  spirit.  You  have — ah — a  knack  of  making  things 
seem  plausible  and  of  giving  weight  to  opinions  by  the  way 
you  express  them,  although  the  opinions  themselves  are 
quite  erroneous,  as  on  the  present  occasion.  Some  of  your 
ideas  ai-e  so  very  mistaken,  you  know  ;  and  you  really 
ought  to  leave  these  matters  to  those  who  understand  them 
<md  can  judge.  It  is  very  dangerous  to  discuss  sach  sub- 
jects, especially — ah — when  you  know  nothing  about  them 
and— ah — cannot  judge.  I  really  must  preach  a  sermon  on 
the  subject.  Let  me  see.  Next  Sunday— ah — yes  ;  next- 
Sunday,  if  you  will  kindly  come  and  hear  me." 

We  all  thanked  him  as  enthusiastically  as  we  could. 

Later,  I  found  Ideala  alone  in  one  of  the  conservatories. 
She  took  my  arm  affectionately,  and  we  walked  up  and 
down  for  a  time  in  silence.  She  was  smiling  and  happy, 
so  happy,  indeed,  that  I  found  it  hard  to  say  anything  to 
disturb  h  r.  For  a  moment  f  felt  almost  as  she  did  about 
the  step  sli3  proposed  to  take.  There  had  been  little  joy 
in  her  life,  and  she  had  borne  her  cross  long  and  bravely ; 
what  wonder  that  she  should  rebel  at  last  and  claim  her 
reward? 

"Do  you  remember  how  you  used  to  talk  about  the 
women  of  the  nineteenth  century,  Ideala,"  I  said,  at  last, 
"and  describe  the  power  for  good  which  they  never  use, 
and  rail  at  them  as  artificial,  milliner-made,  man-hunting, 
self-indulgent  animals?"1 

"  I  know,"  she  answered  ;  "^and  now  you  would  say  I 
am  worse  Than  any  of  them?  I  used  to  have  big  ideas 
about  woman  and  her  mission,  but  I  always  looked  at  the 


15.3  IDEALA. 

question  broadly,  as  it  affects  the  whole  world  ;  now  ray 
vision  is  narrowed,  and  I  see  it  only  with  regard  to  one  in- 
dividual But  I  am  sure  that  is  the  right  way  to  look  at 
it.  I  think  every  woman  will  have  to  answer  for  one 
man's  soul,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  the  nobbst  thing  a 
woman  can  do  is  to  devote  her  life  to  that  soul  first  of  all — 
to  raise  it  if  it  be  low,  to  help  it  to  peace  if  peace  be 
lacking,  and  to  gather  all  the  sunshine  there  is  in  the 
world  for  it ;  and,  after  that,  if  her  opportunities  and 
powers  allow  her  to  help  others  also,  she  should  do  what 
she  can  for  them.  I  do  not  know  all  th«  places  which  ib 
is  legitimate  for  women  to  fill  in  the  world,  but  it  seems 
to  me  that  they  are  many  and  various,  and  that  the  great 
object  in  life  for  a  woman  is  to  help.  To  be  a  Pericles  I 
see  that  a  man.  must  have  an  Aspasia.  "Was  Aspasia  vile  ? 
some  said  so — yet  she  did  a  nobler  work,  and  was  finer  in 
her  fall,  if  she  fell,  than  many  good  women  in  all  the  glory 
of  uprightness  are.  And  was  she  impure  V  then  it  is  strange 
that  her  mind  was  not  corrupting  in  its  influence.  And 
•was  she  low  ?  then  whence  came  her  power  to  raise  others  ? 
It  seems  tome  that  it  only  rests  with  ourselves  to  make  any 
position  in  life,  which  circumstances  render  it  expedient 
for  us  to  occupy,  desirable." 

"  And  you  propose  to  be  an  Aspasia  to  this  modern  Peri- 
cles ?  " 

"  If  you  like  to  put  it  so.  The  cases  are  not  dissimilar, 
as  there  was  an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  their  marriage 
also." 

"The  law  was  the  obstacle." 

"Yc's;  another  of  those  laws  which  are  more  honored 
in  the  breach  than  in  the  observance.  They  might  not 
marry  because  she  came  from  Miletus  !  and  Lorrimer  may 
not  marry  me  because  I  came  oat  of  the  house  of  bondage. 
Unwise  laws  make  immoral  nations." 

"  But  you  have  gone  about  this  business  in  such  an  ex- 
traordinary way,  Ideala,"  I  said.  "  You  seem  to  h:;ve  tried 
to  make  it  appear  as  bad  for  yourself  as  you  can.  Why 


IDEALA.  153 

did  you  not  leave  your  husband  when  Lorrimer  advised 
you  to?" 

"  If  I  had  gone  then,  I  should  have  been  obliged  to  live 
somewhere  else — a  long  way  from  Lorrimer  ;  and  I  might 
nevei  have  seen  him  again." 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  say  you  decided  to  endure  a  life 
that  had  become  hateful  to  you  in  every  way,  simply  for 
the  sake  of  seeing  this  gentleman  occasionally  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Ah  I  you  do  not  know  how  good  he  is,  nor  how 
he  raises  me  1  I  never  knew  the  sort  of  creature  1  was  un- 
til he  tcld  me.  He  said  once,  when  we  quarreled,  that  I 
was  fanciful,  sentimental,  lackadaisical,  hysterical,  and  in 

an  unhealthy  state  of  mind,  and  yet " 

I  made  a  gesture  of  impatience,  and  she  stopped. 
"  But,  Ideala,"  I  asked  her,  after  a  little  pause,  "  have 
you  never  felt  that  what  you  are  doing  is  wrong  ?  "  ^ 

"I  cannot  say  that  exactly,"  she  answered.  "I  knew 
that  certain  social  conventions  forbid  the  thing — at  least, 
I  began  to  acknowledge  this  to  myself  after  a  time.  At 
first,  you  know,  I  thought  of  nothing.  I  was  wholly  ab- 
sorbed in  my  desire  to  see  him  ;  that  excluded  every  other 
consideration.  Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  be  sure  that  a 
thing  is  wrong,  and  yet  not  to  be  able  to  f  oel  it  so — to  have 
your  reason  acknowledge  what  your  conscience  does  not 
confirm?" 

I  made  no  answer,  and  we  were  silent  for  a  little  ;  then 
she  spoke  again : 

"  One  day  when  I  was  in  Japan,"  she  said,  "  I  was  living 
up  in  the  hills  at  Hakone,  ajvillage  on  a  lake  three  thou- 
sand feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  The  mayor  of  the 
village  was  entertaining  me,  and  whenever  I  went  out  he 
sent  his  son  and  several  of  his  retainers  as  an  escort  that 
I  might  not  be  subject  to  annoyance  or  insult  from 
strangers.  One  day  I  was  crossing  the  hills  by  a  mountain- 
path  there  is  between  Hakone  and  Mianoshita,  and  after  I 
passed  Ashynoyou,  where  the  sulphur  springs  are,  I  found 
myself  in  a  dense  fog.  I  could  not  see  anything  distinctly 


154  IDEALA. 

three  yards  in  front  of  me.  Kashywaya  and  the  other  men 
never  walked  with  me  ;  they  used  to  hover  about  me,  leav- 
ing me,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  alone,  if  I  preferred  it. 
The  Japanese  are  very  delicate  in  some  things ;  it  was 
weeks  before  I  knew  that  I  had  a  guard  of  honor  at  all. 
On  that  particular  day  I  lost  sight  of  them  altogether,  but 
I  could  hear  them  calling  to  one  another  through  the  fog ; 
and  I  sat  down,  feeling  very  wretched  and  lonely.  I 
thought  how  all  the  beauty  of  life  had  been  spoiled  for  me  5 
how,  past,  present,  and  to  come,  it  was  all  a  blank  ;  and  I 
wished  in  my  heart  that  I  might  die,  and  know  no  more. 
And,  do  you  know,  just  at  that  moment  the  fag  beneath 
me  parted,  and  I  saw  the  sea,  sapphire  blue  and  dotted 
with  boats,  and  the  sand  a  streak  of  silver,  and  the  green 
earth,  and  a  low  horizon  of  shining  clouds,  and  over  all  the 
sun  !  Dear  Lord  in  heaven  !  how  glad  a  sight  it  was  I " 
She  pressed  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  "  And  I  was 
•wandering,"  she  continued,  "  in  some  such  mental  mist, 
lost  and  despairing,  when  Lorriiner  came  into  my  life,  and 
changed  everything  for  me  in  a  moment,  like  the  sun. 
Would  you  have  me  believe  that  he  was  sent  to  me  then 
only  for  an  evil  purpose?  That  the  good  God,  in  whom  I 
scarcely  believed  until  in  His  mercy  He  allowed  me  to  feel 
love  for  one  of  His  creatures,  and  to  realize  through  it  the 
Divine  love  of  which  it  is  surely  the  foreshadowing— would 
you  have  me  believe  myself  degraded  by  love  so  sent? 
"Would  you  have  me  turn  from  it  and  call  it  sin,  when  I 
feel  that  God  Himself  is  the  giver?" 

I  was  silent,  not  knowing  how  to  answer  her. 

Presently  I  asked  : 

"  But  why  not  kava  a  legal  separation,  a  divorce,  from 
your  husband  now  ?  " 

"  I  can  not,"  she  answered  sadly.  "  At  one  time  I  had 
written  proof  of  his  turpitude,  but  I  could  not  make  up  my 
mind  to  use  it  then,  and  I  destroyed  it  eventually  ;  so  that 
now  my  word  would  be  the  only  evidence  against  him,  and 
that  would  not  do,  I  suppose,  although  you  all  know,  better 


IDEALA.  155 

than  I  do,  I  fancy,  what  his  life  has  been."  Other  people 
had  by  this  time  come  into  the  conservatory,  and  we  were, 
therefore,  obliged  to  change  the  subject. 

In  the  days  that  followed  every  one  seemed  to  become 
conscious  of  some  impending  trouble.  We  were  all  de- 
pressed, and  one  by  one  our  party  left  us,  until  at  last  only 
Ideala  remained,  for  we  had  not  the  heart  to  ask  other 
guests,  even  if  it  had  been  expedient,  and,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, Claudia  did  not  consider  it  so. 

Ideala  spent  much  of  her  time  ia  writing  to  Lorrimer. 
Some  of  these  letters  were  never  sent.  1  fancy  she  wrote 
exactly  as  she  felt,  and  often  feared  when  she  had  done  so 
that  she  had  been  too  frank.  How  these  two  ever  came  to 
such  an  understanding  I  am  at.  a  loss  to  imagine,  and  I 
have  searched  in  vain  for  any  clew  to  the  mystery.  Only 
one  thing  is  plain  to  me,  that  when  at  last  Ideala  under- 
stood her  feeling  for  Lorrimer,  she  cherished  it.  After  she 
found  that  her  husband  had  broken  every  tie,  disregarded 
every  obligation,  legal  and  moral,  that  bound  her  to  him, 
she  seems  to  have  considered  herself  free.  But  I  feel  quite 
sure  she  had  not  acknowledged  this,  even  to  herself,  when, 
she  returned  to  Lorrimer,  and  that  simply  because  she  had 
not  contemplated  the  possibility  of  being  asked  to  take  any 
decided  step.  When  the  time  came,  however,  she  appar- 
ently never  questioned  her  right  to  act  on  this  fancied  free- 
dom. The  circumstances  under  which  they  had  met  were 
probably  responsible  for  a  great  deal .  The  whole  of  their 
acquaintance  had  had  something  unusual  about  it,  which 
would  naturally;  predispose  their  minds  to  further  unac- 
customed issues  when  any  question  of  right  or  expediency 
arose.  The  restrictions  which  men  and  women  have  seen 
fit  to  place  upon  their  intercourse  with  one  another  are  the 
outcome  of  ages  of  experience,  and  they  who  disregard 
them  bring  upon  themselves  the  troubles  against  which 
those  same  restrictions,  irksome  at  times  as  they  must  be, 
are  the  only  adequate  defense. 

One  letter  I  have  here  shows  something  of  the  strength. 


156  IDEALA. 

and  tenderness  of  Ideala's  devotion  ;  and  I  venture  to  think 
that,  even  under  the  circumstances,  it  must  be  good  for  a 
man  to  have  been  loved  once  in  his  life  like  that.  The 
letter  begins  abruptly : 

"  Oh,  the  delight  of  being  able  to  write  to  you,"  she 
says,  "  without  fear  and  without  constraint !  If  it  were 
possible  to  step  from  the  dreary  oppression  of  the  northern 
midnight  into  the  full  blaze  of  the  southern  noon,  the 
transition  would  not  be  greater  than  is  the  sense  of  rest 
and  relief  that  has  come  to  me  after  the  weary  days  which 
are  over.  Do  you  know,  I  never  believed  that  any  one 
person  could  be  so  much  to  another  as  you  are  to  me  ;  that 
any  one  could  be  so  happy  as  I  am  !  I  thiak  I  am  too 
happy.  But,  dear,  I  want  you.  I  want  you  always ; 
but  most  of  all,  when  anything  good  or  beautiful  moves  me  ; 
I  feel  nearer  to  you  then,  and  I  know  you  would  under- 
stand. Every  good  thought,  every  worthy  aspiration, 
everything  that  is  best  in  me,  and  every  possibility  of  bet- 
ter things,  seem  due  to  your  influence,  and  make  me 
crave  for  your  presence.  You  have  been  the  one  thing 
•wanting  to  me  my  whole  life  long.  I  believe  that  no  soul 
is  perfect  alone,  and  that  each  of  us  must  have  a  partner- 
soul  somewhere,  kept  apart  from  us— by  false  marriages, 
perhaps,  or  distance,  or  death,  but  still  to  be  ours,  if  not  in 
this  state,  then  in  some  other,  when  both  are  perfect  enough 
to  make  the  union  possible.  We  are  not  all  fit  for  that  love 
which  is  the  beginning  of  heaven,  and  can  have  no  end.* 

*This  passage  might  have  been  taken  from  Plato,  verbatim,  but 
Ideala  had  not  read  Plaio  at  the  tima  it  was  written.  The  inborn 
passionate  longing  of  the  human  soul  for  perfect  companionship 
doubtless  accounts  for  the  coincidence,  which  also  shows  how  deep- 
rooted  and  widely  spread  the  hope  of  eventually  obtaining  the  de- 
sired companionship  is.  Some  will  maintain  that  the  desire  for 
such  a  possibility  has  created  the  belief  in  it,  but  others  claim  to 
have  met  their  partner-souls  and  to  have  become  united  by  a  bond 
so  perfect  that  even  distance  can  not  sever  it,  there  being  some  in- 
explicable means  of  communication  between  the  two,  which  en- 
ables >ach  ro  know  what  befalls  the  other  wherever  tbey  may  be. 
The  idea  might  probably  b«  traced  back  to  that  account  of  Adam 


IDEALA.  157 

Does  this  seem  fanciful  to  you  ?  It  would  comfort  me  if  we 
were  ever  separated.  If — I  can  not  tell  you  how  it  makes 
my  heart  sink  just  to  look  at  that  word,  although  I  know 
it  does  not  suggest  anything  that  is  possible  in  our  case. 
What  power  would  take  me  from  you  now,  when  there  is 
no  one  else  in  the  whole  wide  world  for  me  but  you  ?  and 
always  you  !  and  only  you  I  You,  with  your  ready  sym- 
pathy and  perfect  refinement ;  your  wit,  your  rapid 
changes,  your  ideality,  your  kindness,  your  cruelty,  and 
the  terrible  discontent  which  makes  you  untrue  to  yourself. 
You  are  my  world.  But  unless  I  can  be  to  you  what  you 
are  to  me,  you  will  always  be  one  of  the  lonely  ones,  Tell 
me,  again,  that  my  absence  makes  a  blank  in  your  life. 
You  did  not  write  the  word,  you  only  left  a  space,  and  do 
you  know  how  I  filled  it  at  first  ?  '  It  was  such  a  relief 
when  you  left  off  coming,'  I  read,  and  I  raged  at  you. 

•'  I  have  heard  it  said  lately  that  you  are  fickle,  but  these 
people  do  not  understand  you.  You  are  true  to  your  ideal, 
but  the  women  you  have  hitherto  known  were  only  so 
many  imperfect  realizations  of  it,  and  so  you  went  from 
one  to  the  other,  always  searching,  but  never  satisfied. 
And  you  have  it  in  you  to  be  so  much  happier  or  so  much 
more  miserable  than  other  men — I  should  have  trembled 
for  you  if  your  hopes  had  never  been  realized. 

"But  what  would  satisfy  you?  I  of  ten  long  to  be  that 
mummy  you  have  in  the  Great  Hospital,  the  one  with  the 
short  nose  and  thick  lips.  When  you  looked  at  me,  spirit 
and  flesh  would  grow  one  with  delight,  and  I  should  come 
to  life,  and  grow  round  and  soft,  and  warm  again,  and  talk 
to  you  of  Thebes,  and  you  would  be  enchanted  with  me — 
you  could  not  help  it  then.  I  should  be  so  old,  so  very  old, 
and  genuine ! 

which  describes  him  as  androgynous,  or  a  higher  union  of  man  and 
woman— a  union  of  all  the  attributes  of  either,  which,  to  punish 
Adam  for  a  grievous  fault,  was  subsequently  sundered  into  the 
contrast  between  man  and  woman,  leaving  each  lonely,  imperfect, 
and  vainly  longing  for  the  other. 


158  IDEALA. 

"  Dear,  how  I  laugh  at  my  fears  now,  or,  rather,  how  I 
bless  them.  If  I  had  never  known  the  horror  of  doubt  how 
could  I  have  known  what  certainty  is?  And  I  did  doubt 
you  ;  I  dare  acknowledge  it  now.  I  wonder  if  you  can 
understand  what  the  shame  of  that  doubt  was?  When  I 
thought  your  absence  and  your  silence  were  intentional 
slights,  I  knew  how  they  felt  when  '  they  called  on  the 
rocks  to  cover  them,'  and  I  wished— oh,  how  I  wished  !— 
that  a  thousand  years  had  passed,  and  my  spirit  could  be  at 
the  place  where  we  met,  and  see  the  pillars  broken,  and 
the  ivy  climbing  over  the  ruins,  and  the  lizards  at  home 
among  them,  and  the  shameless  sunlight  making  bare  the 
spot  where  we  stood. 

"  It  was  as  if  I  had  been  punished  for  some  awful  un- 
known sin,  and  when  I  seemed  to  be  dying,  and  I  dared 
not  write  to  you,  and  all  hope  of  ever  knowing  the  truth 
had  departed,  I  used  to  exclaim,  in  my  misery:  '  Verily, 
Lord,  if  Thy  servant  sinned  she  hath  suffered  I  for  the 
anguish  of  death  has  been  doubled,  and  the  punishment  of 
the  lost  has  begun  while  yet  the  tortured  mind  can  make 
its  lament  and  moan  with  the  tortured  body  1* 

"  But  all  that  bitter  past  only  enhances  the  present. 
"  I  wonder  where  you  will  be  to-day.  I  believe  you  are 
always  in  that  room  of  yours.  You  only  leave  it  to  walk 
to  the  station  with  me,  after  which  you  go  back  to  it,  and 
work  there  till  it  is  dark;  and  then  you  rest,  waiting  for 
the  daylight,  and  when  it  comes  you  go  to  work  again.  I 
can  not  fancy  you  anywhere  else.  I  should  not  like  to 
realize  that  you  have  an  existence  of  which  I  can  know 
nothing,  a  life  through  which  I  can  not  follow  you,  even 
in  imagination . 

"But  sometimes  you  come  to  me,  and  then  how  glad  I 
am  1  You  come  to  me  and  kiss  me,  and  it  is  night  and  I 
am  dreaming,  and  not  ashamed. 

"Yes,  the  days  do  drag  on  slowly,  for  after  all  I  am 
never  quite  happy,  never  at  peace  even,  never  for  a  mo- 
ment, except  when  I  am  with  you.  I  am  sorry  I  feel  so, 


IDEALA.  159 

for  it  seems  ungrateful  in  the  face  of  all  the  kindness  and 
care  that  is  being  lavished  on  me  by  my  friends.  O-ie  lady 
here  has  seven  children— another  instance  of  the  unequal 
distribution  of  the  good  things  of  this  world.  She  has  lent 
me  one  of  them  to  comfort  me  because  I  am  jealous.  He 
sleeps  in  my  room,  and  is  a  fair-haired  boy,  with  eyes  that 
remind  me  of  you.  Will  he  also,  when  he  grows  up,  have 
'*  the  conscience  of  a  saint  among  his  warring  senses '  ?  I 
hope  not;  I  should  think  when  sense  and  conscience  are 
equally  delicate,  and  apt  to  thrill  simultaneously,  life  must 
be  a  burden.  Would  such  a  state  of  things  account  for 
moods  that  vary  perpetually,  I  wonder  ?  " 

Here  she  breaks  off,  and  I  think  these  last  reflections  ac- 
count for  the  fact  that  the  letter  was  never  sent. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

IDEALA  lingered  unwillingly,  but  the  reason  of  her  re- 
luctance to  go  was  not  far  to  seek.  Now  that  Lorrimer 
knew  she  loved  him  she  was  ashamed  to  go  back.  It  would 
have  been  bad  enough  had  he  been  able  to  come  to  her  ; 
but  going  to  him  was  like  reversing  the  natural  order  of 
things  and  unsexing  herself.  I  suppose,  however,  that  she 
forgot  her  shyness  in  her  desire  to  be  with  him  as  the  time 
went  on,  and  the  effort  it  cost  her  to  conquer  her  fear  and 
go  to  him  was  not  so  dreadful  as  the  blank  she  would  have 
been  obliged  to  face  had  she  stayed  away.  At  all  events, 
she  fixed  a  day  at  last,  and  one  morning  she  announced  to 
us,  sadly  enough,  that  on  the  morrow  she  must  say  fare- 
well. She  made  the  announcement  just  after  breakfast, 
and  Claudia  rose  and  left  the  room  without  a  word.  My 
sister  had  never  been  able  to  speak  to  Ideala  on  the  sub- 
ject, but  she  did  not  cease  to  urge  me  to  expostulate,  and 
she  had  suggested  many  arguments  which  had  affected 
Ideala,  and  made  her  unhappy,  but  without  altering  her 
determination. 

I  could  not  find  a  word  to  say  to  her  that  morning,  and 


160  IDEALA. 

during  the  slow  hours  of  the  long  ,  day  that  dragged  itself 
on  so  wearily  for  all  of  us.,  nothing  new  occurred  to  me. 

"  It  will  be  a  relief  when  it  is  over,"  I  said  to  my  sister. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  ;  "  it  is  worse  than  death." 

In  the  evening  she  came  to  my  study  and  said  : 

"  Ideala  is  alone  in  the  south  drawing-room.  I  wish  you 
would  go  to  her,  and  make  a  last  effort  to  dissuade  her." 

I  consented,  hopelessly,  and  went. 

Ideala  was  standing  in  a  window,  looking  out  listlessly. 
She  was  very  pale,  and  I  could  see  that  she  had  been  weep- 
ing. I  sat  down  near  the  fire;  and  presently  she  came  and 
sat  on  the  floor  beside  me,  and  laid  her  head  against  my 
knee.  In  all  the  years  of  my  love  for  her  she  had  never 
been  so  close  to  me  before,  and  I  was  glad  to  let  her  rest  a 
long,  long  time  like  that. 

"Were  you  happy  while  you  were  with  Lorrimer, 
Ideala?"  I  asked  at  last. 

She  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  when  she  did,  it  was 
almost  in  a  whisper. 

"  No,  never  quite  happy  till  this  last  time,"  she  said ; 
"never  entirely  at  ease,  even.  It  was  when  I  left  him,  when 
I  was  alone  and  could  think  of  him,  that  the  joy  came." 

"  There  was  nothing  real  in  your  pleasure,  then,"  I  went 
on  ;  "it  was  purely  imaginary— due  to  your  trick  of  ideal- 
izing everything  and  everybody  you  care  for?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  said. 

<  *  Do  you  think  it  was  the  same  with  him  ?  "  I  asked  again 
— "  I  mean,  all  along.  Did  it  always  make  him  happy  to 
have  you  there  ?  " 

"  I  can  not  tell,"  she  said.  "  Yes,  I  think  at  times  he  was 
glad.  But  a  word  would  alter  his  mood,  and  then  he  would 
grow  sad  and  silent." 

"  Even  on  the  last  occasion?  " 

"  No,  not  on  the  last  occasion.  He  was  happy  then  "— 
and  she  smiled  at  the  recollection — "  ah,  so  happy  I  It  was 
like  new  life  to  him,  he  was  so  young,  so  fresh,  so  glad— 
like  a  boy." 


IDE  ALA.  161 

"  But  before,  when  his  moods  varied  so  often,  did  it  ever 
seem  to  you  that  he  was  troubled  and  dissatisfied  with  him- 
self? that  the  intimacy  had  begun  on  his  part  under  a  mis- 
apprehension, and  that  when  he  began  to  know  you  better, 
he  had  tried  to  end  it,  and  save  you,  by  not  seeing  you  on 
that  occasion?" 

'"  Ah,  that  occasion  again  I "  she  ejaculated.  "  I  forgot  to- 
tell  you,  but  I  asked  for  an  explanation  just  to  satisfy  you. 
Here  it  is  I " 

And  she  took  a  note  from  her  pocket-book  and  handed  it 
to  me.  It  was  one  which  she  had  written  to  him. 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  I  said. 

"Read  it,"  she  answered,  "  and  you  will  find  I  asked  him 
to  expect  me  oa  Monday,  the  2Gth.  It  was  a  clerical  error. 
Tuesday  was  the  26th,  and  I  went  on  Tuesday.  He  waited 
for  me  the  whole  long  Monday,  and  that  night  he  had  to 
set  off  suddenly  for  the  Continent  on  business  connected 
with  the  Great  Hospital.  He  went,  wondering  what  had 
detained  me,  and  expecting  an  explanation.  When  he  re- 
turned he  inquired,  but  nobody  could  tell  him  whether  I 
had  been  or  not.  So  he  waited,  and  waited,  as  I  did,  ex- 
pecting to  hear,  and  as  much  perplexed  and  distressed  as  I 
was,  and  as  proud,  for  he  never  thought  of  writing  to  me 
— nor  did  he  think  of  looking  at  my  note  again  until  T 
wrote  the  other  day  and  the  he  discovered  the  mistake. 
Now,  are  you  satisfied  ?  " 

"  About  that— yes,"  I  answered  reluctantly. 

It  was  rio  relief  to  find  him  blameless. 

"  But  what  did  he  mean  when  he  talked  of  conscience 
and  scruples  ?  " 

"  He  used  to  laugh  at  my  '  troublesome  conscience,'  as  he 
called  it,"  she  answered  evasively. 

"•Would  he  have  known  you  had  a  conscience,  do  you 
think,  if  he  had  had  none  himseu?"  Tasked  her.  "Did 
he  ever  say  anything  that  showed  he  was  yielding  to  a 
strong  inclination  which  he  could  not  justify  and  would 
not  conquer?" 


162  IDEALA. 

"Oh,  no!"  she  said;  then  added  undecidedly:  "At 
least— he  did  say  once, '  Of  course,  in  the  opinion  of  the 
world,  the  thing  cannot  be  justified';  but  then  he  went  on 
as  if  it  had  slipped  from  him  involuntarily,  '  Bah !  I  am 
only  doing  as  other  men  do.' " 

"  Which  shows  he  was  not  exactly  satisfied  to  be  only  as 
other  men  are." 

"That  is  what  I  have  of  ten  told  you,"  she  said;  "his 
ideal  of  life,  both  for  himself  and  others,  is  the  highest 
possibl^,  and  he  suffers  when  he  falls  below  it,  or  even  be- 
lies himself  with  a  word," 

"  Passion  never  lasts,  and  love  does  not  lead  to  evil,  I 
continued  meditatively ;  "  if  you  love  him,  Ideala,  how 
will  you  bear  to  feel  that  he  has  degraded  himself  by  de- 
grading you  ?" 

"  Oh !  do  not  speak  like  that  1"  she  exclaimed.     ' 
is  no  degradation  in  love.    It  is  sin  that  degrades,  and  sin 
is  something  that  corrupts  our  minds,  is  it  not?  and  makes 
us  unfit  for  any  good  work,  and  unwilling  to  undertake 
any.    This  is  very  different." 

"  Ideala,  do  you  remember  telling  me  once  that  you  ha 
a  strange  feeling  about  yourself?  that  you  thought  you 
would  be  made  to  go  down  into  some  great  depth  of  sm  and 
Buffering,  in  order  to  learn  what  it  is  you  have  to  teach?" 

"  Ah,  yes  I"  she  answered  ;  "  but  I  have  not  gone  down. 
I  must  obey  my  own  conscience,  not  yours  ;  and  my  con- 
science tells  me  the  thing  is  right  which  you  hold  to  be 
wrong.    I  am  quite  willing  to  believe  it  would  be  wrong 
for  you,  but  for  me  it  is  clearly  right.    You  said  the  other 
day  he  had  lowered  me.    What  a  fiction  that  is  1    In  what 
have  I  changed  for  the  worse?    Do  I  fail  in  any  duty  of 
life  since  I  knew  him  in  which  I  previously  succeeded 
Oh,  no  I  he  has  not  lowered  me  1     Love  like  this  rounds  a 
life  and  brings  it  to  perfection  ;  it  could  not  wreck  it. 

"  But,  Ideala,  you  are  going  to  fail  in  a  duty  ;  you  are 
going  to  fail  in  the  most  important  duty  of  your  lif 
duty  to  society." 


IDEALA.  163 

"  I  owe  nothing  to  society,"  she  answered  obstinately. 

"  I  have  always  admired  you,"  I  pursued,  "  for  not  let- 
ting your  own  experience  warp  your  judgment.  Oh,  what  a 
falling-off  is  here  !  I  have  heard  you  wish  to  be  something 
*rnore  than  an  independent  unit  of  which  no  account  need 
be  taken.  How  can  we,  any  of  us,  say  we  owe  nothing  to 
society,  when  we  owe  every  pleasure  in  life  to  it  ?  Do  we 
owe  nothing  to  those  who  have  gone  before,  and  whom  we 
have  to  thank  for  the  music,  the  painting,  the  poetry,  and 
all  the  arts  which  would  leave  a  big  blank  in  your  life, 
Ideala,  if  they  ceased  to  exist  ?  You  would  have  been  a  mere 
savage  now,  without  refinement  enough  to  appreciate  that 
rose  at  your  waist-belt,  but  for  the  labor  and  self-denial 
•which  the  hundreds  and  thousands  who  lived,  and  loved, 
and  suffered  in  order  to  make  you  what  yon  are  have  be- 
stowed on  you,  and  on  all  of  us.  You  would  not  say,  if 
you  thought  a  moment,  that  society  had  done  nothing  for 
you  ;  aud  no  one  can  honestly  think  that  they  owe  ih  noth- 
ing in  return.  It  seems  to  me  that  a  rigid  observance  of 
the  laws  which  hold  society  together,  and  make  life  pos- 
sible for  all  of  us,  and  pleasant  for  some,  is  the  least  we 
can  do  ;  and  do  you  know,  Ideala,  when  a  woman  ever 
thinks  of  doing  what  you  propose  to  do,  she  has  already 
gone  down  to  a  low  depth— of  ingratitude,  if  of  nothing 
else?" 

"  I  do  not  propose  to  do  anything  that  will  injure  any 
one,"  she  answered  coldly.  "  I  am  £ree,  am  I  not  ?  to  dis- 
pose of  myself  as  I  like — to  give  myself  to  whomsoever  I 


"  We  are  none  of  us  free  in  that  sense  of  the  word  "  I 
replied. 

"xVll  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole 
Whose  body  Nature  is,  and  God  the  soul. 

\Tou  are,  as  I  know  you  have  desired  to  be,  part  of  a  sys- 
tem, and  an  important  part.  All  the  toil  and  trouble  of 
the  world,  and  all  the  work  which  began  with  the  life  of 
man,  is  directed  toward  one  great  end— the  doing  away 


164  IDEALA. 

with  sin  and  suffering,  and  the  establishment  of  purity  and 
peace.  And  this  work  seems  almost  hopeless,  not  because 
the  multitude  do  not  approve  of  it,  but  because  individuals 
are  cowardly,  and  will  not  do  their  share  or'  it.  Every  act 
of  yours  has  a  meaning  ;  it  cither  helps  or  hinders,  what  is 
being  done  to  further  this,  the  object  of  life.  Lately, 
Ideala,  you  have  been  talking  wildly,  without,  for  a  mo- 
ment, considering  the  harm  you  may  be  doing.  You  have 
expressed  opinions  which  are  calculated  to  make  people 
discontented  with  things  as  they  are.  You  rob  them  of 
the  content  which  has  made  them  comfortable  heretofore, 
and  yet  you  offer  them  nothing  better  in  return  for  it. 
You  would  have  society  turned  topsy-turvy,  a.,d  all  for 
what?  Why,  simply  to  make  a  wrong  thing  right  for 
yourself  I  If  your  example  were  followed  by  all  the  un- 
happy people  in  the  world,  how  would  it  end,  do  you 
think?  There  must  be  moral  laws,  and  it  is  inevitable 
that  they  should  press  hardly  on  individuals  occasionally ; 
but  it  is  clearly  the  duty  of  individuals  to  sacrifice  them- 
selves for  the  good  of  the  community  at  large." 

"I  do  not  understand  your  morality,"  she  said.  "Do 
you  think  that,  although  I  love  another  man,  it  would  be 
right  for  me  to  go  back  and  live  with  my  husband  ?" 

"Eight,  but,  under  the  circumstances,  not  advisable; 
and,  at  any  rate,  nothing  would  make  it  moral  for  you  to 
go  to  that  other  man." 

"Oh I  du  not  fill  my  mind  with  doubt,"  she  pleaded 
piteously.  '-I  love  him.  Let  me  go." 

I  did  not  answer  her,  and  after  awhile  she  began  again, 
passionately  : 

'•  We  are  free  agents  in  these  things.  Individuals  must 
know  what  is  best  for  themselves.  If  I  devote  my  life  to 
him,  as  I  propose,  who  would  be  hurt  by  it  ?  Should  I  be 
less  pure-minded,  and  would  he  be  less  upright  in  all  his 
dealings?  When  things  can  be  legally  right  though  mor- 
ally wrong,  can  they  not  also  be  morally  right  though 
legally  wrong  ?  " 

"I have  already  tried  to  show  you,  Ideala."  I  answered, 
preparing  to  go  over  the  old  ground  again  patiently,  "  that 
we  none  of  us  stand  alone,  that  we  are  all  part  of  this  great 
system,  and  that,  in  cases  like  yours,  individuals  must  suf- 
fer, must  even  be  sacrificed,  for  the  good  of  the  rest.  When 
the  sacrifice  id  voluntary,  we  call  it  noble." 

"  If  I  go  to  him,  I  shall  have  sacrificed  a  good  deal." 

"You  will  have  sacrificed  others,  not  yourself.  He  is 
all  the  world  to  you,  Ideala  ;  the  loss  would  be  nothing  to 
the  gain  "  —she  Lid  her  face  in  her  hands—"  and  what  is 


IDEALA.  165 

required  of  you  is  self-sacrifice.  And  surely  it  would  be 
happier  in  the  end  for  you  to  give  him  up  now,  than  to 
live  to  feel  yourself  a  millstone  round  his  neck." 

'•  I  do  not  understand  you,"  she  said,  looking  up  quickly. 

"  The  world,  you  see,  will  know  nothing  of  the  fine 
gentimen's  which  made  you  determine  to  take  this  step,"  I 
said.  "You  will  bespoken  of  contemptuously,  and  he 
will  be  '  the  fellow  who  is  living  with  another  man's  wife, 
don't  you  know,'  and  that  will  injure  him  in  many  ways." 

*'  Do  y'.m think  so?  "  she  asked  anxiously. 

"I  know  it,"  I  replied.  "And  look  at  it  from  that  or 
any  other  point  of  view  you  like,  and  you  must  see  you  are 
making  a  mistake.  A  woman  in  your  position  sets  an  ex- 
ample whether  she  will  or  not,  and  even  if  all  your  best 
reasons  for  this  step  were  made  public,  you  would  do  harm 
by  it,  for  there  are  only  too  many  people  apt  enough  as  it 
is  at  find  ing  specious  excuses  for  their  own  shortcomings, 
\vho  would  be  glad,  if  they  dared,  to  do  likewise.  And 
you  would  not  gaia  your  object,  after  all.  You  would 
neither  be  happy  yourself,  nor  mike  Lorrimer  happy. 
People  like  you  are  sensitive  about  their  honor — it  is  the 
sign  of  their  superiority  ;  and  the  indulgence  of  love,  even 
at  the  mome  t,  and  under  the  most  favorable  circum- 
stances of  youth,  beauty,  and  intellectual  equality,  does 
not  satisfy  such  natures,  it'  the  indulgence  be  not  regulated 
and  sanctified  by  all  that  men  and  women  have  devised  to 
make  their  relations  moral." 

This  was  my  last  argument,  and  when  I  had  done  she 
sat  then  lor  a  longtime  silent,  resting  her  head  against  my 
knee,  and  scarcely  breathing.  She  was  fighting  ic  out  with 
herself,  aud  I  thought  it  best  to  leave  her  alone — besides,  I 
had  already  sail  all  there  was  to  say ;  repetition  would 
\  only  have  irritated  her,  and  there  was  nothing  now  for  it 
but  to  wait. 

Outside  I  could  hear  the  dreary  drip  of  raindrops  ;  some- 
where in  the  room  a  clock  ticked  obtrusively  ;  but  it  was 
lonaj  past  midi.i^ht,  and  the  house  was  still.  I  thought 
that  only  t!ie  night  and  silence  watched  with  me,  and 
waited  upon  the  suffering  of  this  one  poor  soul. 

At  1  i.,t  she  moved,  uttering  a  low  moan,  like  one  in  pain, 

"  I  do  see  it,"  she  said  almost  in  a  whisper ;  "  and  I  am 
willing  to  give  him  up." 

"  God  in  His  mercy  help  you  !"  I  prayed. 

"  And  forgive  me,"  she  answered  humbly. 

She  was  quite  exhausted,  and  passively  submitted  when  I 
led  her  to  her  room.  I  closed  the  shutters  to  keep  out  the 
cheerless  dawn,  aud  made  the  fire  burn  up,  and  lighted  the 


166  IDEALA. 

lamps.  She  sat  silently  watching  me,  and  did  not  seem  to 
think  it  odd  that  I  should  do  this  for  her.  She  clung  to  me 
then  as  a  little  child  clings  to  its  father,  and,  like  a  father, 
I  ministered  to  her,  reverently,  then  left  her,  as  I  hoped,  to 
sleep. 

My  sister  opened  her  door  as  I  passed.  She  was  dressed, 
ftndhad  been  watching,  too,  the  whole  night  long. 

"Well?"  she  asked. 

I  kissed  her. 

"  It  is  well."  I  answered;  and  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  Can  I  go  to  her  now  ?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  go." 

I  went  to  Claudia's  room,  and  waited.  After  a  long  time 
she  returned. 

"  She  is  quiet  at  last,"  she  told  me,  sorrowfully. 

And  so  the  long  night  ended. 


CHAPTER  XXVH. 

IDEALA.  had  returned  to  us  quite  under  the  impression 
that  if  she  took  the  btep  she  proposed  we  should  think  it 
right  to  cast  her  off ;  and  that  little  tentative,  "  Must  I 
give  you  up?"  was  the  only  protest  she  had  offered.  But 
such  was  not  our  intention.  Far  from  it  1  We  do  not  for- 
sake our  friends  in  their  bodily  ailments,  and  we  are  poor, 
pitiful,  egotistical  creatures,  indeed,  when  we  desert  them, 
for  their  mental  and  moral  maladies,  leaving  them  to  strug- 
gle against  them  and  fight  them  out  or  succumb  to  them 
alone  according  to  their  strength  and  circumstances.  The 
world  will  forsake  them  fast  enoughj  and  that  is  sufficient 
punishment — if  they  deserve  punishment.  Of  course, 
Ideala  could  never  have  come  back  to  us  as  an  honored 
guest  again,  after  taking  such  a  step,  but  she  would  have 
continued  to  fill  the  same  piace  in  our  affections,  if  not  in 
our  esteem. 

"  And  you  will  drive  everybody  else  away,  and  keep  the 
house  empty  all  the  year  round,  in  order  to  be  able  to  re- 
ceive her — and  Mr.  Lorrimer — whenever  they  choose  to 
visit  us,"  Claudia  had  declared  when  we  discussed  the  sub- 

That  was  not  quite  what  I  intended  ;  but  I  had  made 
Ideala  understand  that  nothing  she  could  do  would  affect 
her  intercourse  with  us.  I  told  her  so  at  once,  because  I 
would  not  have  her  alter  her  determination  for  any  consid- 
eration but  the  highest  She  might  at  the  last  have  hesi- 
tated to  separate  herself  from  us  forever ;  but  I  felt  sure 


IDEALA.  167 

if  that  were  the  case,  and  it  was  not  a  better  motive  en- 
tirely which  deterred  her,  she  would  not  be  satisfied  even- 
tually  ;  and  I  know  now  that  I  was  right. 

Ideala  wrote  to  Lorrimer,  and  when  she  had  finished 
her  letter  I  found  that  she  intended  to  impose  a  terrible 
task  upon  me. 

"  Until  you  know  him  yourself  you  will  always  misjudge 
him,"  she  said.  "  I  want  you  to  take  him  my  letter,  and 
make  his  acquaintance." 

I  hesitated. 

•'  It  is  the  least  you  can  do,"  she  pleaded.  "  I  shall  be 
easier  in  my  mind  if  you  will.  It  will  be  better  for  him  to 
see  you,  and  hear  all  the  things  I  can  not  tell  him  in  my 
letter  ;  and— and— if  I  must  not  see  him  myself,  it  will  be 
a  comfort  to  see  somebody  who  has.  Do  go.  I  shall  be 
pained  if  you  refuse." 

This  decided  me,  and  I  went  at  once. 

It  was  a  long  journey,  the  same  that  Ideala  herself  had 
taken  under  such  very  different  circumstanced  so  short  a 
time  before.  1  thought  of  her  going  in  doubt  and  uncer- 
tainty, her  own  feelings  coloring  the  aspect  of  all  she  saw 
on  tlie  way  ;  and  returning  in  the  first  warm  glow  of  hei 
great  and  unexpected  joy — her  new-found  happiness  which 
was  destined,  alas!  to  be  so  short-lived.  Miserable  fate 
which  robbed  her  of  all  that  would  have  made  her  life 
worth  having — a  husband  on  whom  she  could  rely ;  her 
child  ;  and  now  the  man  upon  whom  she  had  been  pre- 
pared to  lavish  the  long  pent-up  passion,  the  concentrated 
devotion  of  her  great  and  noble  nature  1  Poor  starved 
heart,  crashed  back  upon  itself,  suffering  silently,  suffering 
always,  but  never  hardening — on  the  contrary,  growing 
tenderer  fr- others  the  more  it  had  toendure  itself  !  Would 
it  always  be  so  ?  "Was  there  no  peace  on  earth  for  Ideala  ? 
No  one  who  could  be  all  her  own  ?  I  felt  responsible  for 
this  last  hard  blow.  Had  I  done  well?  The  rush  and 
rattle" of  the  train  shaped  itself  into  a  sort  of  sub-chorus  to 
my  thoughts  as  we  sped  through  the  pleasant  fields  :  Was 
it  right?  Was  it  right?  Was  it  right?  And  I  saw  Ideala, 
with  soft,  sad  eyes,  pleading— mutely  pleading— pleading 
always  for  some  pleasure  in  life,  some  natural,  womanly 
joy,  while  youth  and  the  power  to  love  lasted.  By  an  effort 
of  will  I  banished  the  question.  I  told  myself  that  my  action 
in  the  matter  had  been  expedient  from  every  point  of  view; 
but  presently 

The  rush  of  the  grinding  steel  1 
The  thundering  crank,  and  the  mighty  wheel  I 


169  IDEALS 

took  me  to  task  again,  and  the  chorus  now  became:  Ex- 
pediency right !  Expediency  right !  Expediency  right  I 
which,  when  I  banished  it,  resolved  itself  into  :  Cold  proud 
Puritan  !  Cold,  proud  Puritan  !  for  the  rest  of  the  way. 

But  the  journey  ended  at  last— though  that  was  little 
relief  with  the  task  I  had  before  me  still  unaccomplished. 

A  bulbous  functionary  took  my  card  to  Lorrimer  when  I 
presented  myself  at  the  Great  Hospital  next  day,  and  re- 
turning presently  informed  me  that  Mr.  Lorrimer  was  dis- 
engaged and  would  see  me  at  once,  if  I  would  be  so  good 
as  to  come  this  way.  How  familiar  the  whole  proceeding 
seemed  !  And  how  well  I  knew  the  place  !  the  soothing 
silence,  the  massive  grandeur,  the  long,  dimly  lighted 
gallery  to  the  right,  the  poor  ax  which  the  servant  stopped 
and  knocked,  the  man  who  opened  it,  and  met  my  eyes 
fearlessly,  bowing  wita  natural  grace,  and  bidding  me 
enter — a  tall,  fair  man,  self-contained  and  dignified  ;  cold 
pale,  and  unimpassioned — so  I  thought — but  my  equal  in 
every  way  ;  the  man  who  was  "  all  the  world ''  to  Ideaia. 

When  I  saw  him  I  understood 

*  *  #  *  *  * '          * 

Lorrimer.  after  dismissing  his  secretary,  was  first  to  speak. 

"You  come  to  me  from  Ideala?"  he  said.  "Is  there 
anything  wrong  ?  Is  she  ill  ?" 

And  I  fancied  he  turned  a  trifle  paler  as  the  fear  flashed 
through  his  mind.  I  reassured  him. 

"  Physically  she  is  better,"  I  said. 

"But  mentally  ?"  he  interposed.  "You  give  her  no  peace.'* 

I  was  silent. 

"  I  know  you  are  no  friend  of  mine,"  he  added. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  I  answered  ;  "I  hope  I  am  the  best 
friend  you  have  just  now." 

"  I  know  what  that  means,"  he  said.  "  You  have  tried 
to  dissuade  Ideala,  and  having  failed,  you  have  come  here 
to  use  your  influence  with  me." 

"  No,"  I  answered.  "  I  have  not  come  to  discues  the  sub- 
ject. I  have  brought  you  a  letter  from  Ide:ila  at  her  special 
request,  and  I  am  ready  to  take  her  any  reply  which  you 
may  think  fit  to  send." 

I  gave  him  the  letter  and  rose  to  go,  but  he  detained  me. 

"  Stay  till  I  have  read  it,  if  you  can  spare  me  the  time."  he 
said  ;  "  it  is  just  possible  that  there  is  something  in  it  which. 
we  cnight  to  discuss." 

I  turned  to  the  mantelpiece  and  tried  to  interest  myself 
in  the  lovely  things  with  which  it  was  crowded,  but  never 
in  my  life  did  my  heart  sink  so  for  another,  never  have  I 
endured  such  moments  of  pained  suspense. 


IDE  ALA.  1G9 

I  heard  him  open  the  envelope,  I  heard  the  paper  rustle 
as  he  turned  the  page,  and  then  there  was  silence — 

Full  of  the  city's  stilly  sound — 
a  moment  only,  but  filled  with 

Something  which  possess'd 
The  darkness  of  the  world,  delight, 
Life,  anguish,  death,  immortal  love, 
t'eadin.i?  not^  mingled,  unrepress'd, 
Apart  from  space,  withholding  time — 

a  moment's  silence  and  then  a  he-ivy  fall.    Lorrimer  had 
fainted. 


I  stayed  three  days  at  the  Great  Hospital,  three  days  of 
the  most  delightful  converse.  At  first  Lorrimer  had  re- 
belled, not  realizing  that  Ideala's  last  decision  was  irrevo- 
cable. 

"  You  have  over-persuaded  her,"  he  said. 

"  No,"  I  answered  ;"  I  have  convinced  her,  and  I  shall 
convince  you  too." 

He  pleaded  fpr  her  pathetically,  not  for  himself  at  all.  "She 
has  had  so  little  joy  !"  he  said,  using  the  very  words  that 
had  occurred  to  i^e.  "And  I  wanted  to  silence  her.  I  wanted 
to  save  her  from  hor  lute.  For  she  is  uue  des  cinq  ou  six 
creatures  huinaines  qui  naissent,  dans  tout  un  siecle,  pour 
aimer  la  verite,  et  pour  niourir  sans  avoir  pula  faire  aimer 
des  autres.  She  must  suffer  terribly  if  she  goes  on." 

1  his  was  a  point  upon  wnich  we  differed.  He  would  have 
given  her  the  natural  joys  of  a  woman — husband,  home, 
children,  friends,  and  only  such  intellectual  pursuits  which 
are  pleasant,  /had  always  Jioped  to  see  her  at  work  in  a 
wider  field.  But  she  was  one  of' those  rare  women  who  are 
born  "to  fulfill  both  destinies  at  once,  and  worthily,  if  only 
circumstances  had  made  it  possible  for  her  to  combine  the 
two. 

Before  I  had  been  with  him  many  hours  I  began  to  be 
sensible  of  that  difference  of  feeling  on  certain  subjects 
which  would  have  made  their  union  a  veritable  linking  of 
the-  past  to  the  future— his  belief  that  nothing  can  be  better 
than  what  has  been,  and  that  the  old  institutions  revised 
are  all  that  the  world  wants,  and  her  faith  in  future  develop- 
ments of  all  good  ideas,  and  further  discoveries  never  yet 
imagined.  For  one  thing,  Lorrimer  considered  famine  and 
war  inevitable  scourges  of  the  human  race,  necessary  tor 
the  removal  of  the  surplus  population,  and  useless  to  con- 


170  IDEALA. 

tend  apjfiir.r'r.  because  destined  to  rocur,  so  long  as  there  is 
a  human  race  ;  but  he  would  have  limited  intellectual  pur- 
suits for  women,  because  culture  is  held  to  prevent  the 
trouble  for  which  the  elder  expedients  only  provided  a  cure 
— a  point  upon  which  Ideala  did  not  agree  with  him  at  all. 
"  Nothing  is  more  disastrous  to  s  cial  prosperity,"  she 
held,  "  or  more  likely  to  add  to  the  criminal  classes,  than 
families  which  are  too  large  for  their  parents  to  bring  up, 
and  educate  comfortably,  in  their  own  station.  If  the 
higher  education  of  women  is  a  natural  check  on  over- 
production of  that  kind,  then  encourage  it  thankfully  as  a 
merciful  dispensation  of  Providence  for  the  prevention  of 
much  misery.  I  can  see  no  reason  in  nature  or  ethics  for 
a  teeming  population  only  brought  into  existence  to  be  re- 
moved by  famine  and  war.  Why  this  old  green  ball  of  an 
earth  would  roll  on  just  as  merrily  without  any  of  us." 

Lorrimer  wrote  to  her  at  last.  He  had  been  obliged  to 
acquiesce  ;  and  I  took  Ideala  his  letter  ;  but  she,  woman- 
like, though  nothing  wou;cl  have  altered  her  decision,  was 
not  at  first  satisfied  with  his  compliance.  It  seemed  to  her 
too  ready,  and  that  made  her  doubt  if  she  might  not  have 
been  to  blame  after  all.  They  wrote  to  each  other  once 
again,  and  when  she  received  his  last  letter,  she  spoke  to 
me  about  it. 

"  He  must  have  seen  it  as  you  do  from  the  first,  for  he 
has  said  no  word  to  alter  my  determination- -rather  the 
contrary,"  she  told  me.  "  We  are  not  to  meet  again,  nor 
to  correspond;  and  doubtless  it  is  a  relief  to  him  to  have 
the  matter  settled  in  this  way;  but  one  tiling  puzzles  me. 
In  my  last  letter  I  bid  him  good-by,  adding,  '  Since  that  13 
what  you  wish,'  and  he  has  replied,  '  I  never  said  I  wished 
it;  will  you  remember  that?'  I  do  remember  it,  and  it 
comforts  me;  but  why?" 

I  knew  that  Lorrimer  had  sjnd  little  in  order  to  make 
her  sacrifice  as  easy  for  her  as  possible;  and  I  was  silent, 
too,  for  the  sam-3  reason.  I  thought  if  she  felt  herself  to 
blame,  her  pride  would  come  to  the  rescue,  and  make  her 
loss  appear  rather  inevitable  than  voluntary.  For.  say 
what  we  will,  we  reconcile  ourselves  to  the  inevitable 
sooner  than  to  those  sorrows  which  we  might  have  saved 
ourselves  had  we  deemed  it  right. 

"You  insinuated  once  that  it  was  all  my  fault,  she 
said.  "  Perhaps  it  was— if  fault  there  be.  But  if  I  tempted 
him,  it  must  have  been  generosity  that  made  him  yield  to 
the  temptation.  He  pitied  me,  and  was  ready  to  mako  me 
happy  by  devoting  himself  to  me,  since  that  was  what  I 


IDEALA.  171 

seemed  to  require.  And  I  agree  with  you  now.  I  don't 
think  we  should,  either  of  us,  have  found  any  real  happi- 
ness in  that  way.  But,  oh,  how  I  long  for  him!  for  his 
friendship!  for  his  companionship!  for  his  love.  It  is  hard, 
hard,  hard,  if  he  does  not  miss  me  as  I  do  him." 

Then  I  told  her : 

"But  he  does.  And  he  did  not  yield  to  your  decision 
until  I  had  convinced  him  that  he  could  never  make  you 
happy  in  such  a  position." 

A  great  sigh  of  relief  escaped  her.  And  then  I  saw  that 
I  ought  to  have  been  frank  with  her  from  the  first.  It 
strengthened  her  to  know  that  they  still  had  something  left 
to  them  in  common,  though  that  something  was  only  their 
grief. 

I  tried  to  comfort  her  by  speaking  of  the  many  ways  m 
which  she  might  still  find  happiness.  She  listened  patiently 
until  I  was  obliged  to  stop  for  want  of  words,  then  she  said: 

"This  is  all  very  well,  but  you  know  you  are  talking 
nonsense.    What  is  the  use  of  offering  people  everything 
but  the  one  thing  needful?    What  I  say  to  myself  is : 
Well,  I  have  had  my  turn,  have  been 

Raised  from  the  darkness  of  the  clod. 
And  for  a  glorious  moment  seen 
The  brightness  of  the  skirts  of  God. 

And  I  try  to  tliink  I  have  no  right  to  complain,  but  still  I 
am  not  better  satisfied  than  the  child  that  has  eaten  its 
cake  and  wants  to  have  it  too.  And  I  suppose  there  are 
many  who  would  call  me  wretched,  and  say  that  my  life, 
with  my  sorrowful  marriage,  which  was  no  marriage,  but 
a  desecration  of  that  holy  state,  and  a  sin— and  my  hope- 
less love,  is  a  broken  life.  Certainly  I  feel  it  so.  And  yet 
I  don't  know.  With  his  nature  it  seems  to  me  that  some 
wrong-doing  was  inevitable.  Do  you  think  my  suffering 
mighj  be  taken  as  expiation  for  his  sins?  Do  you  think 
we  are  allowed  the  happiness  of  bearing  each  other's 
burdens  in  that  way  if  we  will  ?  If  I  were  sure  of  that,  I 
should  not  fancy,  as  I  used  to,  that  I  had  a  work  to  do  in 
the  world  ;  I  should  know  that  my  work  is  done,  and  that 
now  I  may  rest.  Ah,  the  blessing  of  rest !" 

Not  long  after  this  a  cruel  rumor  reached  us,  on  good 
authority,  that  Lorrimer  was  engaged  to  be  married.  I 
confess  that  my  feeling  about  it  was  one  of  unmitigated 
contempt  for  the  man,  and  I  trembled  for  the  effect  of  the 
news  upon  Ideala.  She  made  no  sign,  however,  when  first 
she  heard  it.  I  was  surprised,  and  fear  I  showed  that  I 
was,  in  spite  of  myself,  for  she  gpoke  about  it 


173  IDEALA. 

"  You  do  not  understand,"  she  said.  "  One  event  in  hia 
career  is  not  of  more  consequence  to  me  than  another,  be- 
cause all  are  of  the  greatest  consequence.  But  I  have  none 
of  the  dog-in-the-manger  spirit.  I  think  there  must  be 
something  almost  maternal  in  my  feeling  for  him,  which 
is  why  it  does  not  change.  ,  Were  I  less  constant,  it  would 
prove  that  my  affection  is  of  a  lower  kind,  less  enduring 
because  less  pure.  I  do  not  care  to  talk  about  him,  but  I 
think  of  him  always.  I  think  of  him  as  I  saw  him  last 
with  the  sun  on  him.  Do  you  know  his  hair  is  like  light 
gold  with  the  sun  on  it?  Sometimes  t!  e  memory  of  him 
fades  a  little,  and  I  can  not  recall  his  features,  and  then  I 
am  tormented  ;  but,  of  course,  he  comes  back  to  me— so 
vividly  that  I  have  started  often  when  I  looked  up  and 
found  myself  alone.  The  desire  to  be  with  him  never  less- 
ens ;  it  burns  iu  me  always,  and  is  both  a  pain  and  a  pleas- 
ure. But  rny  love  is  too  great  to  be  selfish.  His  wishes 
for  himself  are  niy  wishes,  and  what  is  best  for  him  is  hap- 
piest for  me.  Am  I  never  jealous?  Jealous!  No!  Do 
you  not  know  that  he  is  mine,  mine  through  every  change? 
Neither  time  nor  distance  separates  us,  really.  No  com- 
mon tie  can  keep  him  from  me.  Let  him  be  bound  as  and 
to  whomsoever  he  pleases,  his  soul  is  mine,  and  must  re- 
turn to  me  sooner  or  later.  I  like  him  to  be  happy  in  any 
way  that  is  right,  for  I  know  that  what  he  gives  to  others 
is  not  himself .  1  was  not  fit  for  the  clear  earthly  love, 
but  perhaps,  if  I  keep  myself  pure,  body  and  soul,  for  him, 
I  shall  be  made  worthy  at  last,  and  of  something  better. 
And  my  love  is  so  great  it  would  draw  him  in  spite  of 
himself,  for  he  will  find  by  and  by  that  he  can  not  live 
with  a  smaller  soul,  and  then  he  will  come  to  me.  Do  you 
not  understand  what  I  want?  His  soul— purified,  strength- 
ened, ennobled— nothing  less  will  satisfy  me;  and  his 
mother  might  ask  as  much.  If  I  might  be  made  the 

means  of  saring  it "     Then,   after  a  little  pause,  she 

added  :  "  Ah,  how  beautiful  death  is  !  He  will  be  glad,  as 
I  should  be  now,  to  meet  it— and  yet  more  glad  !  for  then 
the  end  will  have  come  for  him,  but  I  should  have  S.U11  to 
wait." 

The  rumor  of  Lorrimer's  engagement,  however,  proved 
to  be  false.  It  was  another  Lorrimer,  a  cousin  of  his. 

4>  Lorrimer  is  restored  to  your  good  graces  now,  I  sup- 
pose," Claudia  said  in  her  half -sarcastic  way,  when  the 
mistake  was  explained.  I  had  not  told  her  what  was  in 
my  mind?  she  had  read  my  thoughts.  "  You  think  that  a 
man  whom  Irleala  has  loved  should  consider  himself 
sacred,"  bhe  added. 


IDEALA.  173 

I  did  not  answer.  But  I  hold  that  all  men  who  have 
felt  or  inspired  great  love  will  be  sanctified  by  it  if  there 
be  any  true  nobility  in  their  nature  ;  and  I  knew  that  one 
man,  whom  Ideala  did  not  love,  had  been  so  sanctified  by 
love  for  her,  and  held  himself  sacred  always. 

Cut  it  was  a  relief  to  my  mind  to  know  that  Lorrimer 
was  not  unworthy.  He  was  a  distinguished  man  then,  and 
I  felt  sure  that  he  would  become  still  more  distinguished 
eventually.  He  was  not  one  of  the  many  who  come  and 
go.  and  are  forgotten ;  but  one  of  those  destined  to  live 
forever 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence. 
The  good  in  his  nature  was  certainly  as  far  above  the 
average  as  were  his  splendid  abilities,  and  Ideala  was  right 
when  she  declared  that  she  could  answer  for  his  principles. 
It  is  impulse  that  is  beyond  calculation,  and  for  his  own  or 
another's  impulses  no  wise  man  will  answer. 

Ideala  continued  to  droop. 

"  She  will  never  get  over  it,"  I  said  to  Claudia  one  day 
when  we  were  alone  together. 

"  Indeed  she  will,"  Claudia  answered  confidently.  "  Out 
of  the  depth  of  your  profound  ignorance  of  natural  history- 
do  you  speak,  my  brother.  I  dread  the  reaction  though. 
"When  it  comes  she  will  be  overwhelmed  with  shame  ;  but 
it  will  come.  Al  1  this  is  only  a  phase.  She  is  in  a  state  of 
transition  now.  It  is  her  pride  that  makes  her  nurse  her 
grief,  and  will  not  let  her  give  him  up.  She  cannot  bear 
to  think  that  sho,  of  all  women  in  the  world,  should  have 
been  the  victim  of  anything  so  trivial  as  a  passing  fancy. 
Not  that  it  would  have  been  a  passing  fancy  if  they  had 
not  been  s^  parated  ;  but  as  it  is— why,  no  fire  can  burn 
without  fuel." 

Claudia,  had  evidently  changed  her  mind,  and  she  might 
be  ri^h  -, ;  but  my  own  fear  was  that  her  first  impression 
wou]d  be  justified,  and  that  Ideala  would  never  be  able  to 
take~  a  healthy  interest  in  anything  again. 

"  I  cannot  care,"  was  her  constant  complaint.  "  Noth- 
ing ever  touches  me  either  painfully  or  pleasurably.  Noth- 
ing will  ever  make  me  glad  again." 

She  said  this  one  evening  when  she  was  sitting  alone 
with  Claudia  and  myself,  and  there  was  a  long  silence  after 
she  had  finished  speaking,  during  which  she  sat  in  a  de- 
jected attitude,  her  face  buried  iu.  her  hands. 

All  at  once  she  looked  up. 

"It  is  very  strange,"  she  said,  "but  half  that  feeling 
seems  to  have  gone  with  the  expression  of  it." 

"  1  think,"  Claudia  decided,  in  her  common-sense  tone, 


174  IDEALA. 

"that you  are  nursing  this  unholy  passion,  Ideali;  You 
are  "./raid  to  give  it  up  lest  there  should  be  nothing  left  to 
you.  Can  you  not  free  your  mind  from  the  trammels  of 
it,  and  grasp  something  higher,  better,  and  nobler  ?  Can 
you  not  become  mistress  of  yourself  again,  and  enter  on  a 
larger  life  which  shall  be  full  of  love— not  the  narrow,  self- 
ish passion  you  are  cherishing  for  one,  but  that  pure  and 
holy  love  which  only  the  btst — and  such  women  as  you 
may  always  be  of  the  best— can  feel  for  all?  If  you  could 
but  get  the  fumes  of  this  evil  feeling  out  of  yourself,  you 
would  see,  as  we  see,  what  a  common  thing  it  is,  and  you 
•would  recognize,  as  we  recognize,  that  your  very  expres- 
sion of  it  is  just  such  as  is  given  to  it  by  every  hysterical 
man  or  woman  that  has  ever  experienced  "it.  It  is  a 
physical  condition  caused  by  contact,  and  kept  up  by  your 
own  perverse  pleasure  in  it— nothing  more.  Every  one 
grows  out  of  it  in  time,  and  any  one  with  proper  self-con- 
trol could  conquer  it.  You  are  wavering  yourself.  You 
see  now  that  you  have  crystallized  the  feeling  into  words; 
that  it  is  a  pitiful  thing,  after  all;  that  the  object  is  not 
•worth  such  an  expenditure  of  strength— certainly  not 
worth  the  sacrifice  of  your  power  to  enjoy  anything  else. 
Such  devotion  to  the  memory  of  a  dead  husband  has  been 
thought  grand  by  some,  although,  for  my  part,  I  can  see 
nothing  grand  in  any  form  of  self-indulgence,  whether  it 
be  the  indulgence  of  sorrow  or  joy,  which  narrows  our 
sphere  of  usefulness,  and  causes  us  to  neglect  the  claims  of 
those  wi>o  love  us  upon  our  affection,  and  the  claims  of 
«ur  fellow  creatures  generally  upon  our  consideration  ;  but 
in  your  case  it  is  simply " 

Claudia  paused  for  want  of  a  word. 

"  You  would  say  it  is  simply  degrading,"  Ideala  inter- 
posed. "  I  do  not  feel  it  so.  I  glory  in  it." 

"  I  know,"  said  Claudia  pitilessly.  "  You  all  do."  And 
then  she  got  up  and  laid  her  hand  on  Ideala's  shoulder. 
*'  It  is  time,"  she  said  earnestly, 

"  It  is  time,  O  passionate  heart  and  morbid  eye, 
That  old  hysterical  mock- disease  should  die." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

I  HOPED  Claudia's  plain  speaking  had  made  an  impres- 
sion, but  for  a  long  time  after  that  it  seemed  as  if  Ideala's 
interest  in  life  had  really  ended,  that  her  sphere  of  useful- 
tress  had  contracted,  and  that  she  herself  would  become 
like  the  rest— a  doer  of  unconnected  trifles  that  have  mean- 


IDEALA.  175 

ing  only  as  the  straws  have  meaning  which  show  which 
way  the  current  sets.  One  can  not  help  thinking  how  many 
of  these  significant  straws  must  go  down  to  the  ocean  and 
be  lost,  their  little  use  unrecognized,  their  little  labor  un  - 
availing ;  because  it  does  PO  little  good  merely  to  know 
which  way  the  stream  is  setting,  or  what  ocean  will  receive 
it  at  last,  if  we  have  no  power  to  profit  by  the  knowledge. 
At  this  time  Ideala's  own  life  was  not  unlike  one  of  these 
hajJi  ss  straws,  and  it  seemed  a  wretched  failure  of  its  early 
promise,  t)  at  eroding  as  a  straw  on  the  common  stream, 
when  so  little  might  have  made  her  influence  in  her  owa 
sphere  like  the  river  itself,  strong  ard  beautiful.  Those 
who  loved  her  watched  her  in  her  trouble  with  eager  hope 
that  some  good  might  yet  come  of  it;  but  the  hope  dimin- 
ished always  as  tho  days  wore  on.  At  first  her  mind  had 
raged  and  stormed  ;  one  could  see  it,  though  she  said  so. 
litile.  Her  renunciation  was  perfect,  but  nevertheless  she 
could  not  re  -oncile  herself  to  it.  She  would  not  go  back, 
but  ehe  could  not  go  en,  and  so  she  remained  midway  be- 
tween the  past,  which  was  hateful  to  her,  and  the  future, 
which  was  a  blank,  raging  at  both.  But  gradually  the 
storm  subsided ;  and  then  came  a  period  of  calm,  but 
whether  it  was  the  calm  of  apathy  or  the  calm  of  resigna- 
tion, it  was  hard  to  say — and  meantime  she  lost  her  health 
again,  and  became  so  fragile  that  my  sister  only  expressed 
what  I  felt  when  she  was  speaking  of  her  one  day,  and  said, 
sadly  : 

"  Her  cheek  is  so  waxenly  thin 
As  if  d?athward  'twere  wnitening  in, 
And  the  cloud  of  her  flesh,  still  more  white, 
Were  clearing  till  soul  is  in  sight. 

Her  large  eyes  too  liquidly  glister ! 
'     Her  mouth  is  too  red. 

Have  they  kissed  her— 
The  angels  that  bend  down  to  pull 
Our  buds  of  the  Beautiful, 
And  whispered  their  owa  little  Sister  ?'' 

We  were  anxious  to  take  her  abroad,  but  she  would  not 
accompany  us.  She  talked  of  going  alone,  but  she  did  not 
go,  and  after  a  time  we  gave  up  thinking  about  it.  Then. 
one  day,  quite  suddenly,  she  said,  ''It  is  time  this  old 
hysterical  mock-disease  should  die,"  and  she  told  us  that 
she  had  at  last  decided  to  travt  1 — somewhere  ;  nothing  more 
definite  than  that,  for  she  said  she  had  no  fixed  plans.  V/e- 


176  IDEALA. 

concluded,  however,  that  she  meant  to  be  away  sometime, 
for  she  said  something  a  bout  perils  of  the  deep,  and  the 
uncertainty  of  life  generally,  and  she  confided  her  private 
papers  to  my  care,  telling  me  t  >  look  at  them  if  they  would 
interest  me,  and  make  what  use  of  them  I  pleased  ;  and  that 
was  how  those  from  which  I  have  gathered  much  of  her 
story  came  into  any  possession.  And  then  she  left  us,  and 
for  a  whole  year  we  heard  nothing  of  her — not  one  word. 
Claudia  chafed  a  little,  and  complained,  as  women  will 
when  things  do  not  arrange  themselves  exactly  fis  they 
would  have  ordered  them  ;  but  I  was  content  to  wait,  aud, 
because  I  expected  nothing,  the  time  did  not  seem  so  lung 
as  perhaps  it  might  have  done.  We  lived  cur  usual  life- 
part  of  tho  year  in  one  of  the  eastern  counties,  and  part  in 
London,  and  then  we  came  north  again.  It  was  winter 
weather,  frosty,  and  clear,  and  bright,  and  I  waste; 
<jut  a  great  deal,  taking  longrides,  begun  before  sunset  and 
ending  by  moonlight,  and  generally  alone.  Aud  always 
when  the  world  seemed  most  beautiful  I  thought  of  Ideala, 
and  how  she  had  loved  its  beauty — mountain  and  plain, 
flood  and  field,  forest  and  flower,  the  snow  and  thesun^hine, 
and  all  the  alternations  of  light  and  shade  ;  the  wonders  of 
form,  and  the  depth  and  harmony  of  color  ;  the  blue  sky  by 
day,  with  its  glories  of  sunrise  and  sunset ;  the  dark  sky 
by  night,  with  its  moonlight  and  starlight— the  sky  always  I 
that  cloud-land  to  which,  when  we  are  wearied  by  the  in- TO 
monotonous  earth,  we  have  only  to  lift  our  eyes  au J  there 
the  scene  is  changing  forever — the  sky— aud  ihe  sta  : 

In  all  its  vague  immensity  1 

"Would  she  ever  see  it  again  in  the  old  way  ?    When  she  left 
us  one  might  have  said  of  her  mental  state  : 

O  dark,  dark,  dark,  amid  the  blaze  of  noon— 
Irrecoverably  dark,  total  eclipse 
Without  all  hope  of  day  I 

And  where  was  she  now?  and  was  she  learning  to  s«e 
again?  I  own  I  sometimes  had  the  presumption  to  think 
that  if  she  had  stayed  with  us  I  might  have  helped  her. 
Allied  hardly  credible  that  she  should  be  able  to  stand 
alone  at  such  a  time,  not  to  speak  of  the  strength  required 
to  take  her  out  of  herself.  Aud  was  not  the  lonelin< 
self  an  added  misery  ?  She  never  could  bear  to  be  alone, 
and  I  always  thought  the  worst  trial  of  her  married  life 
1  no  mental  solitude  to  which  it  had  reduced  her  by 
making  her  feel  the  necessity  f<.r  reserve,  even  with  her 
best  friends.  Of  course  she  had  chosen  to  go  alone  ;  ic  was 


IDHALA.  177 

quite  her  own  doing  ;  but  I  could  not  help  thinking,  un- 
easily at  times,  that  she  would  not  have  gone  at  all  if  she 
had  not  noticed  how  anxious  we  were  about  her,  and 
fancied  she  could  relieve  us  of  our  trouble  by  relieving  us 
of  her  presence.  That  would  have  been  so  like  Ideala. 
Acd  then  my  thoughts  would  wander  off,  recalling  her 
numberless  lictle  deeds  of  love,  her  perfect  selflessness,  and 
ull  the  depth  and  beauty  of  her  great  and  tender  nature,  as 
we  do  recall  such  things  of  one  who  has  gone  and  will 
never  more  return,  as  in  the  old  days,  to  make  us  glad. 
There  was  the  day  I  had  seen  her  from  the  club  window 
stoop  to  pick  up  a  little  ragged,  barefooted  child  that  was 
crying  in  the  street,  and  wrap  her  furs  about  it  and  carry 
it  off,  smiling  and  happy,  in  her  arms,  with  no  more 
thought  of  the  attention  such  an  action  would  attract  than 
if  she  had  been  alone  with  her  waif  in  the  desert.  But 
many  and  many  a  time,  and  in  many  a  way,  she  had  made 
glad  hearts  by  "deeds  like  that;  and  now  where  was  she? 
And  was  there  never  a  one  in  the  whole  wide  world  to  help 
her  to  bear  her  own  sorrow  and  ease  herpain  ? 

One  evening  in  particular  I  had  been  more  than  usually 
tormented  by  such  thoughts.  I  had  been  blaming  myself 
bitterly  for  having  allowed  her  to  go  away  alone,  and  when 
I  rode  up  to  my  own  door  I  wa.s  conscious  of  a  half-formed 
resolution  to  lollow  her  wuhout  delay  and  bring  her  back. 

Claudia  was  standing  on  the  steps  in  the  crisp,  fresh 
evening  air,  apparently  watching  for  me.  She  put  her 
arms  round  my  neck  when  I  alighted,  and  kissed  me. 

"Has  she  written?"  I  exclaimed,  for  Claudia  was  not 
demonstrative,  and  this  meant  something. 

"  She  is  here,"  was  the  answer. 

My  heart  gave  a  great  leap,  but  I  could  not  ask  if  it  were 
well  with  her.  I  could  only  look  at  Claudia,  and  wonder 
if  it  were  the  moonlight  that  made  the  expression  of  her 
face  so  singularly  content  and  sweet. 

1  went  into  the  lighted  house,  and  being  somewhat  dazed 
and  altogether  too  eager  to  see  her  at  once,  I  dressed  for 
the  evening,  leisurely,  and  then  I  went  to  find  her.  There 
was  a  change  in  the  house  already.  It  was  lighted  from 
top  to  bottom  as  befits  a  time  of  rejoicing,  and  our  other 
guests,  whom  I  passed  in  my  search,  seemed  gayer— or  I 
fancied  so.  She  was  not  among  them,  but  I  took  the 
liberty  of  going  to  her  rooms  and  knocked  at  the  sitting- 
room  door,  and  entered.  She  rose  to  receive  me,  stretch- 
ing out  her  hands,  and  my  first  impression  was  that  she 
had  grown  ;  afterward  I  understood  that  it  was  a  change 
in  the  fashion  of  her  dress  that  made  it  appear  so.  Sue 


178  IDE  ALA. 

wore  a  long  robe,  exquisitely  draped,  which  was  loose,  but 
yet  clung  to  her,  and  fell  in  rich  folds  about  her  with  a 
grace  that  satisfied.  I  can  not  describe  the  fashion  or  this 
robe,  or  the  form,  but  I  have  seen  one  like  it  somewhere— 
it  must  have  been  in  a  picture,  or  on  a  statue  of  a  grand 
heroic  woman  or  a  saint;  and  it  suggested  something 
womanly  and  strong,  but  not  to  be  defined. 

It  was  Ideala  herself— not  as  she  had  been,  but  as  I 
always  hoped  she  would  be,  and  felt  she  might.  She 
showed  the  change  in  every  gesture,  but  moat  of  all  in  her 
clear  and  steady  eyes,  which  made  you  feel  she  had  a  pur- 
pose now,  and  a  future  yet  before  her.  She  looked  as 
women  look  when  they  know  themselves  intrusted  with  a 
work,  and  have  the  courage  and  resolution  to  be  true  and 
worthy  of  their  trust.  She  was  very  granious,  but  some- 
how, in  tha  first  moment  of  our  meeting,  I  felt  abashed- 
abashed  before  t  his  woman  who  had  gone  down  to  the 
verge  of  dishonor,  but  whose  goodness,  with  the  vitality  of 
all  goodness,  had  raised  her  again  above  the  best;  whose 
trouble  had  been  to  her,  because  of  this  goodness,  as  is  a 
painful  operation  which  must  be  gone  through  if  the 
patient  would  ever  be  strong. 

I  fancy  she  thought  me  cold  because  my  great  respect 
made  me  shy,  and  I  hesitated  to  show  her  all  the  joy  I  felt. 

"  Won't  you  kiss  me  once  after  my  long,  long  voy- 
age?" she  said,  holding  up  her  face  like  a  child  to  be  kissed. 
And  it  made  me  inexpressibly  glad  to  perceive  that,  while 
gaining  in  dignity  and  purpose,  her  character  had  lost  none 
of  the  child-like  faith  and  affection  which  had  been  one  of 
the  greatest  charms  of  the  old  Idealn.  I  could  not  help  ex- 
amining her  curiously,  looking  for  traces  of  a  conliicc,  fof 
those  lines  of  sull'eriug  which  are  generally  left  by  fierce 
mental  troubles,  like  scars  after  a  battle,  showing  that  the 
fight  has  been  no  chMd's  play,  but  a  struggle  for  life  or 
death.  Such  a  conflict  there  must  have  been,  but  all  trace 
of  it  was  swept  away  by  the  wonderful  peace  that  had  suc- 
ceeded it.  Ideala  looked  younger,  certainly,  but,  the  change 
showed  itself  most  in  her  perfect  serenity,  ami  in  the  stead- 
fast eanjCotuL\-o  of  her  wonderful  eyes. 

But  I  had  no  time  to  talk  to  her,  for  Claudia,  in  dia- 
monds, and  velvet,  and  lace— her  donning  or  which  13  her 
one  way  of  expressing  a  satisfaction  too  deep  for  words- 
blazed  in  upon  us.  If  it  had  occurred  to  her,  she  would 
certainly  have  had  the  bells  of  the  parish  rung— provided 
my  authority  as  lay  rector  could  have  accomplished  such 
an  extravagance.  She  took  us  away  with  her  now  to  join 
our  other  guests,  and  when  dinner  was  announced  I  oGered 


IDEALA.  179 

Ideala  my  arm.  She  was  silent  as  we  went,  but  looked 
about  her  with  a  grave  little  smile  on  her  lips,  renewing 
her  acquaintance  with  familiar  objects,  and  noting  every 
change.  And  so  busy  was  she  with  her  own  reflections,  so 
thoroughly  absorbed,  that,  when  we  were  seated  at  table, 
she  put  her  serviette  beside  her  plate  and  her  bread  on  her 
lap  mechanically,  and  took  up  her  knife  and  fork  to  eat 
her  soup.  She  seemed  puzzled  for  a  moment  when  she 
found  that  the  implements  did  not  answer,  and  then  she 
laughed.  Such  a  fresh,  girlish  laugh  !  It  did  one's  heart 
good  to  hear  her.  Yes,  verily,  Ideala  was  herself  again, 
absent-mindedness  and  all. 

And  before  dinner  was  over  a  wonderful  thing  had  hap- 
pened. For  whereas  we  had  hitherto  been  the  most  com- 
monplace and  prosaic  party  imaginable,  getting  along 
smoothly,  taking  no  particular  interest  in  each  other,  or  in 
anything  else,  and  only  remarkable  for  a  degree  of  dullness 
which  would  have  astonished  us  by  its  bulk  could  it  have 
been  weighed  and  measured— to-night,  for  no  apparent 
reason,  we  suddenly  woke  iip  and  astounded  ourselves  by 
more  originality  than  we  had  been  accustomed  to  believe 
was  left  in  the  world  altogether— while  something  put  into 
our  conversation  just  the  right  amount  of  polite  friction  to 
act  as  a  counter-irritant,  so  that,  when  we  left  the  table, 
each  felt  that  he  had  been  at  his  best— had  been  brilliant, 
in  fact,  and  shone  with  luster  enough  to  make  any  man 

Once  in  a  London  theatre  I  saw  an  actress  walk  across 
the  stage.  She  did  not  utter  a  word,  she  never  looked  at 
the  audience,  she  was  apparently  unconscious  of  every- 
thing but  what  she  had  in  her  own  mind ;  yet  before  she 
was  half  across  the  stage  the  people  rose  to  their  feet  with 
a  roar.  Ideala's  coming  among  us  had  produced  some 
such  startling  effect;  but  her  power  was  altogether  occult. 
The  audience  knew  what  the  actress  meant,  but  we  did  not 
understand  Ideala,  and  yet  we  applauded  by  laying  our  best 
before  her,  and  acknowledged  the  charm  of  her  presence 
in  every  word.  [She  spoke  very  little,  however.  Indeed,  I 
remember  nothing  she  said  until  we  went  to  the  drawing- 
room.  On  the  way  thither  Claudia  had  picked  up  a  crumpled 
paper,  and,  glancing  at  it,  had  exclaimed  : 

"Why,  Ideala,  here  are  some  of  your  verses!  Do  you  still 
write  verses  ?" 

It  was  curious  that  we  all  spoke  as  if  she  had  been  away 
for  years. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  tranquilly;  and  Claudia  coolly  pro- 
ceded  to  read  the  verses  aloud,  a  difficult  task,  as  they  were 


ISO  IDEALA. 

scribbled  in  pencil  on  half  a  sheet  of  note  paper,  and  were 
scarcely  decipherable.  Ideala,  meanwhile,  listened,  with 
calm  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  like  one  trying  to  be  polite, 
but  finding  it  hard  for  lack  of  interest. 

"  By  Arno,  when  the  tale  was  o'er 
At  sunset,  as  in  days  of  yore, 

I  wandered  forth  and  dreamed. 
The  sky  above,  the  town  below, 
The  solemn  river's  silent  flow, 
The  ancient  story-haunts  I  know,. 

In  varied  colors  gleamed. 

"  By  Arno  calm  my  steps  I  stayed, 
Just  where  the  river's  bank  displayed 

A  tangled  growth  of  weeds; 
Tall  houses  near,  and  on  the  right 
An  arched  bridge  upreared  its  height 
And  boats  drew  near,  and  passed  from  sight — 
I  heard  the  tramp  of  steeds. 

"  I  heard,  and  saw,  but  heeded  not; 
My  feet  were  rooted  to  the  spot, 

A  fancy  checked  my  breath. 
'Twas  here  that  Tito  lay,  I  knew, 
His  fair  faoe  upward  to  the  blue, 
His  velvet  tunic  soaking  through, 

Most  beautiful  in  death. 

"  But  Baldnssarre  was  not  there  ; 
'Twas  I  that  stooped  to  kiss  the  hair, 

Besprent  with  ooze  and  dew, 
Ah,  God!  light  gold  the  locks  caressed — 
I  saw  no  Greek  in  velvet  dressed — 
But  wildly  to  my  bosom  pressed— 
Not  Tito,  love,  but  you! 

•'  The  massive,  godlike  head  and  throat 
Belonged  not  to  those  days  remote, 

The  fine  gray  eye— th    limb; 
It  was  tl'ie  soul  I  know  so  wi  II, 
So  full  of  earth,  and  heaven,  and  hell, 
That  came  from  out  that  time  to  dwell 

In  you  and  m;;ke  you  him. 

*'  And  I.  the  victim  of  your  smiles, 
Anil  1,  t  e  victim  of  your  wiles, 

My  vengeance  shail  prevail. 
The  river  Time  shall  float  you  nigh, 


IDEALA.  181 

And  earth  and  hell  your  soul  shall  fly, 
And  only  heavi  n  remain  when  I 
The  deed  triumphant  hu.il  I" 

It  surprised  me  to  find  that  Claudia  could  read  those 
verses  to  the  end,  their  import— to  me,  at  least — was  so 
obvious.  But  Ideala  continued  unmoved  ;  and  when  the 
little  buzz  of  friendly  criticism  had  subsided,  she  remarked 
with  unimpassioned  directness : 

"  I  am  quite  sure  that  all  my  verses  are  rubbish  ;  but 
nevertheless  they  delight  me.  I  should  feel  dumb  without 
the  power  to  make  verses ;  it  is  a  means  of  expression  that 
satisfies  when  nothing  else  will.  I  always  carry  my  last 
about  in  my  pocket.  I  know  them  by  heart,  of  course,  but 
still  it  is  a  pleasure  to  read  them  ;  and  so  it  continues  until 
I  write  some  more  ;  and  then  I  immediately  perceive  that 
the  old  ones  are  bad,  and  I  destroy  them — when  I  remem- 
ber. Those  were  condemned  ages  ago,  so  please  oblige 
me,  Claudia,  by  putting  them  into  the  fire." 

Claudia  was  about  to  obey,  but  I  interposed.  I  had  a 
fancy  for  keeping  those  verses.  They  are  rubbishy,  if  you 
will ;  but  the  sentiment  which  struggles  to  find  expression 
in  them  is  far  from  despicable. 

No  one  smoked  that  evening  ;  no  one  played  billiards  ; 
no  one  cared  for  music  ;  we  just  sat  round  the  fire  in  a 
circle  and  talked. 

"  And  where  have  you  come  from,  Ideala  ?"  was  the  first 
question. 

"  From  China,"  she  answered. 

There  was  a  general  exclamation. 

"I  have  been  with  the  missionaries  in  China,"  she  added. 

"  Oh,  isn't  it  very  strange,  the.  life  in  China?"  some  one 
asked. 

"  It  looks  different,"  she  said.  "  but  it  feels  like  our  own. 
To  begin  with,  one  is  struck  by  the  strange  appearance  of 
the  people,  and  the  quaint  humor  of  their  art ;  but  when 
the  first  effect  wears  off,  and  you  learn  to  know  them,  you 
find,  after  all,  that  theirs  is  the  same  human  nature,  only 
in  another  garb  ;  the  familiar  old  tune,  as  it  were,  with  a 
new  set  of  variations.  The  like  in  unlikeness  is  common 
enough,  but  still  the  finding  of  a  remarkable  similarity  in 
things  apparently  unlike  continues  to  surprise  us." 

"  But,  Idoala,  you  cannot  compare  the  Chinese  to  our- 
selves. Think  of  the  state  of  degradation  the  people  are 
in  !  Every  crime  is  rife  among  them— infanticide  is  quite 
common." 

"  Yes,"  said  Ideala,  as  if  it  were  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world.  "  Yes,  doubtless,  the  lower  classes  in  China 


182  IDEALA. 

kill  their  children  ;  here,  in  certain  districts,  they  insure 
them,"  Ideala  concluded  gravely. 

"But  then,"  said  Claudia— "  Oh  !  Ideala,  I  don't  think 
you  can  establish  a  parallel.  We  all  know  the  sort  of  a  life 
a  Chinese  lady  leads." 

"  When  a  liidv  is  not  at  the  head  of  her  house  it  io  cer- 
tainly vacuous,"  Ideala  agreed,  "like  the  lives  of  our  own 
ladies,  when  they  are  not  forced  to  do  anything.  Why,  at 
Scarborough  this  year  they  had  to  take  to  changing  their 
dresses  four  times  a  day  ;  so  you  can  imagine  how  they 
languish  for  want  of  occupation." 

"  Well,  at  all  events,  English  girls  are  not  sold  into  ft 
hateful  form  of  slavery,"  some  one  observed  contentedly. 

"  Are  they  not?"  Ideala  rejoined,  with  a  flash.  '•  I  can 
assure  you  that  both  women  and  men,  fathers,  husbands 
and  brothers,  of  the  same  class  in  England,  do  sell  their 
young  girls— and  I  can  prove  it." 

"  We  have  the  pull  over  them  in  the  matter  of  marriage, 
then.  We  don't  give  our  daughters  away  against  their 
will,  as  they  do." 

"  That  is  not  a  fair  way  of  putting  it  A  Chinese  girl 
expects  to  be  so  disposed  of,  and  accepts  the  a  rangement 
as  a  matter  of  course.  And  the  system  has  its  adva- ta- 
ges.  The  girl  lias  no  illusions  to  be  shattered,  she  expects 
no  new  happiness  in  her  married  life;  so  that  any  that 
comes  to  her  is  clear  gain.  As  to  our  daughters'  inclina- 
tions not  being  forced,  I  suppose  they  are  not  exactly.  1  <ut 
have  you  never  been  conscious  of  the  tender  pressure  that 
is  brought  to  bear  when  a  desirable  suitor  offers  ?  Havte 
you  never  seen  a  girl  that  won't  marry  when  she  i ?  wanted 
to,  wincing  from  covert  stabs,  mourning  over  cold  looks, 
and  made  to  feel  outside  everything — suffering  a  small 
martyrdom  under  the  general  dis  leasure  of  all  for  whom 
che  cares,  her  wo;  Id,  without  whose  love  life  is  a  burden  to 
her  ;  whom  she  believes  to  know  best  about  everything  ? 
As  Mrs.  Bread  said  about  Madame  do  Cintre  :  'She  is  a 
delicate  creature,  and  they  make  her  feel  wicked'—  and 
she  ends  by  thinking  any  sacrifice  light  at  the  moment,  if 
only  it  wins  her  back  the  affection,  and  esteem  of  her 
friends." 

Ideala  had  been  carried  away  by  hor  earnestness,  and 
now  she  stopped  abruptly,  somewhat  disconcerted  to  find 
eveiy  one  listening  to  her.  The  ladies  sat  with  their  eyes 
on  the  floor,  the  gentlemen  exchanged  glances,  but  no  o:ie 
spoke  for  some  time. 

At  last  my  sister  made  a  move,  and  the  spell  was  broken. 
We  separated  for  the  night,  and  many  were  the  lady-like 


IDEALA,  183 

whispers  that  reached  my  ears,  all  ending  in  "So  like 
Ideala ! " 

But,  as  Ideala  herself  remarked  on  another  occasion: 
*•  You  can't  sweep  a  room  that  requires  it  without  raising 
a  dust ;  the  thing  is  to  let  the  dust  settle  again,  and  then, 
remove  it." 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

CLAUDIA  did  not  see  the  change  in  Ideala  all  at  once. 
She  said : 

"  She  is  looking  her  best,  and  is  our  own  Ideala  again — 
faults  and  all !  How  she  talked  last  night ! " 

"Just  in  the  old  way,"  I  agreed,  "  but  with  a  difference; 
for  in  the  old  days  she  talked  at  random,  but  now  I  feel 
sure  that  she  has  a  plan  and  a  purpose,  and  all  that  she 
says  is  part  of  it." 

This  suggested  new  possibilities  to  Claudia,  and  when 
Ideala  joined  us  presently,  she  asked  abruptly : 

"Are  you  going  back  to  China?" 

Ideala  answered  deliberately : 

"  I  did  lliink  of  becoming  a  missionary — that  was  why  I 
went  out  there.  But  I  know  all  radical  reforms  take  time, 
and  when  I  ?aw  what  the  Chinese  women  were  doing  for 
themselves,  and  compared  their  state  with  our  owr,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  there  was  work  in  plenty  to  be  done  at 
home,  and  so  I  returned.  Certainly  the  Cmnese  women  ( >f 
the  day  bind  their  feet.  When  a  girl  is  seven  or  eight  years 
old,  her  mother  binds  them  for  her,  and  everybody  Ap- 
proves. If  the  mother  did  otherwise,  the  girl  herself  v, 
be  the  first  to  reproach  her  whesn  she  grew  up.  It  is 
derful  how  they  endure  the  torture;  but  public  opinion 
has  sanctioned  the  custom  for  centuries,  and  made  it  as 
much  a  duty  for  a  Chinese  woman  to  have  small  feet  ac  it 
is  f or  us  to  wear  clothes !  And  yet  they  do  a  wonderful 
thing.  When  they  ar<>  taught  how  wrong  the  practice  is, 
how  it  cripples  them,  and  weakens  them,  and  renders  th.  m 
unfit  for  their  work  in  the  world,  they  take  off  then?  band- 
ages. Think  of  that  1  and  remember  that  they  are  • 
and  sensitive  in  a  womanly  way  to  a  degree  that  is  painful. 
When  I  learned  that,  and  when  I  remembered  that  rny 
country-women  bind  every  organ  in  their  bodies,  though 
they  know  the  harm  of  it.  and  public  opinion  is  against  it, 
I  did  not  feel  that  T  had  time  tostay  and  teach  the  hen  hen. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  there  was  work  enough  2eft  ye  I  to  do 
at  home." 


184  IDEALA. 

"But,  Ideala,"  Clauda  protested,  "what  is  the  use  of 
drawing  degrading  comparisons  between  ourselves  and 
other  nations  ?  You  gave  great  offense  last  night." 

"I  said  more  than  I  intended,"  she  answered;  "I 
always  do.  It  was  Tourgenieff,  was  it  not?  wh  .  said  that 
the  age  of  talkers  must  precede  the  age  of  practical  re- 
formers. I  seem  to  have  been  born  in  the  age  of  talkers. 
But  I  shall  not  say  much  more.  Last  night  I  did  not 
really  intend  to  say  anything.  You  led  me  on.  But  I  do 
want  to  make  their  hearts  burn  within  them,  and  if  I  suc- 
ceed, then  I  shall  not  care  about  the  offense.  An  English 
woman  is  nothing  if  she  is  not  patriotic.  She  will  not  bear 
the  humiliation,  if  she  is  made  to  see  that  she  is  really  no 
better,  with  all  her  opportunities,  than  a  much-despised 
Chinese.  She  would  not  like  the  contempt  the  women  of 
that  nation  feel  for  her  if  shs  were  made  to  acknowledge 
the  truth— that  she  deserved  u.  And  so  much  depends  on 
our  women  now.  There  are  plenty  of  people,  you  know, 
who  believe  that  no  nation  can  get  beyond  a  certain  point 
of  prosperity,  and  that  when  it  reaches  that  point  it  can 
not  stay  there,  but  must  begin  to  go  down  again  ;  and  they 
say  that  the  English  nation  has  now  reached  its  extreme 
point.  They  compare  it  with  Home  in  the  days  which  im- 
mediately preceded  her  decline  aud  fall— when  men  ceased 
to  b  >  brave  and  self-denying,  and  became  idle,  luxurious, 
and  effeminate,  and  women  traded  on  their  weakness,  and 
made  light  of  their  evil  deeds.  It  is  a  question  of  the  sanc- 
tity of  marriage  now,  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  the  decline 
of  Rome.  De  Quincey  traces  her  fall  to  the  loosening  of 
the  marriage  tie.  He  says  that  few,  indeed,  if  any,  were 
the  obligations  in  a  proper  sense  moral  which  pressed  upon 
the  Roman.  The  main  fountains  of  moral  obligation  had 
in  Rome,  by  law  or  custom,  been  thoroughly  poisoned. 
Marriage  had  corrupted  itself  through  the  facility  of 
divorce,  and  through  the  consequences  of  that  facility 
(viz.,  levity  in  choosing,  and  fickleness  in  adhering  to  the 
choice),  into  so  exquisite  a  traffic  of  selfishness  that  it 
could  not  yield  so  much  as  a  phantom  model  of  sanctity. 
The  relation  of  husband  and  wife  had,  for  all  moral  im- 
pressions, perished  among  the  Romans.  And,  although  it 
is  not  quite  so  bad  with  ourselves  at  present,  that  is  what  it 
is  coming  to. 

"  But  there  are  two  sides  to  every  question,  and  the  one 
•which  we  must  by  no  means  lose  sight  of  just  now  is  not 
that  which  shows  the  respects  in  which  we  resemble  the 
Romans,  so  much  as  the  one  which  shows  the  respects  in 
which  we  differ  from  them.  It  is  therein  that  our  hope 


IDEALA.  185 

lies.  And  we  differ  from  them  in  two  important  respects 
We  differ  from  them  in  the  matter  of  experience,  and  in 
the  use  we  are  disposed  to  make  of  our  experiences.  We 
are  beginning  to  know  the  rocks  upon  which  they  split, 
and  we  shall  soon  be  making  use  of  our  knowl?dge  to  steer 
clear  of  them.  But  there  is  another  respect  in  which  we 
differ  from  all  the  older  nations,  not  even  excepting  the 
Jewish.  I  mean  morality.'  We  have  the  tbe  grandest  and 
purest  ideal  of  morality  that  was  ever  preached  upon  earth, 
and,  if  we  do  but  practice  it,  there  is  no  doubt  that  the 
promise  will  be  fulfilled,  and  our  days  as  a  nation  will  be 
prolonged  with  rejoicing. 

"The  future  of  the  race  has  come  to  be  a  question  of 
morality  and  a  question  of  health.  Perhaps  I  should  re- 
verse it,  aud  say  a  question  of  health  and  morality,  since 
the  latter  is  so  dependent  on  the  former.  We  want  grander 
minds,  and  we  must  have  grander  bodies  to  contain  them. 
And  it  all  rests  with  us  women.  To  us  is  confided  the  care 
of  the  little  ones — of  the  young  bodies  and  the  young 
minds  yet  unformed.  Ours  will  be  the  joy  of  succf  ss  or 
the  shame  of  failure,  and  we  should  fit  ourselves  for  the 
task  both  morally  and  physically  by  the  practice  of  every 
virtue,  and  by  every  art  known  to  the  science  ami  skill  of 


man. 


'  Englishwomen  could  not  sit  still  and  know  that  their 
lovely  homes  will  be  wrecked  eventually,  and  left  desolate: 
that  this  country  of  theirs  will  become  a  wilderness  of  ruin, 
such  as  Egypt  is,  but  rank  and  overgrown,  its  beauty  of 
sweet  grass  and  stately  trees,  and  all  its  rich  luxuriance  of 
flowers,  and  fruits,  und  foliage  plants,  only  accentuating 
the  ruin— bearing  witness  to  the  neglect.  No  ;  our  great- 
ness shall  not  depart.  The  decay  may  have  begun,  but  it 
shall  be  arrested.  I  am  not  afraid." 

"  But  if  it  is  the  fate  of  nations,  Ideala " 

"Ipjopose  to  conquer  fate,"  said  Ideala.  "Fate  itself 
is  no  match  for  one  woman  with  a  will,  let  alone  for  thou- 
sands. When  horrid  war  is  threatened,  men  flock  to  fight 
for  their  country  ;  and  they  volunteer  for  every  other  ardu- 
ous duty  to  be  done.  Do  you  think  women  are  less  brave? 
No.  When  they  realize  the  truth,  they  will  fight  for  it. 
They  will  fly  to  arms.  They  will  use  the  weapons  with 
whicn  Nature  has  provided  them  ;  love,  constancy,  seif- 
Bacntice,  their  intellectual  strength  and  will.  And  so  they 
will  save  the  nation." 

Claudia,  the  unimaginative,  sat  silent  and  perplexed. 

"I  would  join,"  she  said  at  last,  "if  I  were  quite  sure 
O  Ideala  I  it  is  not  a  sort  of  Woman's  "Rights  busi- 


188  IDEALA. 

ness,  and  all  that,  you  are  going  in  for,  is  it  ?  A  woman 
can  do  good  in  her  own  sphere  only." 

Ideala  laughed. 

"  But '  her  own  sphere'  is  such  a  very  indefinite  phrase," 
she  observed.  "  It  is  nonsense,  really.  A  woman  may  do 
anything  which  she  can  do  in  a  womanly  way.  They  say  that 
our  brains  are  lighter,  and  that  therefore  we  must  not  be 
taught  too  much.  But  why  not  educate  us  to  the  limit  of 
our  capacity,  and  leave  it  there  ?  Why,  if  we  are  inferior, 
should  there  be  any  fear  of  making  us  superior  ?  We  must 
stop  when  we  cannot  go  any  further,  and  all  this  old-woman- 
ish cackle  on  the  subject,  the  everlasting  trying  to  prove 
what  is  already  said  to  be  proved — the  looking  for  the 
square  in  space  after  laying  it  down  as  a  law  that  only  the 
circle  exists — is  a  curious  way  of  showing  us  how  to  control 
the  '  exuberance  of  our  own  verbosity.'  They  say  we  shall 
not  be  content  when  we  get  what  we  want ;  and  there  they 
are  right,  for  as  soon  as  our  own  '  higher  education ' 
is  secure,  we  shall  begin  to  clamor  for  the  higher  edu- 
cation ofmen.  For  the  prayer  of  every  woman  worth  the 
name  is  nbt,  '  Make  me  superior  to  my  husband,'  but '  Lord, 
make  my  husband  superior  to  me  ! '  Is  there  any  more 
pitiful  position  in  the  world  than  that  of  a  right  minded 
woman  who  is  her  husband's  superior,  and  knows  it? 
There  is  in  every  educated  aud  refined  woman  an  inborn 
desire  to  submit,  and  the  must  do  violence  to  what  is  best 
in  herself  when  she  can  noU  You  know  what  the  history 
of  euch  marriages  is.  The  girl  has  been  taught  to  expect 
to  find  a  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend  in  her  hus- 
band. He  is  lo  be  head  of  the  house  and  lord  of  her  life 
and  liberty,  sole  arbiter  on  all  occasions.  It  is  right  and 
convenient  to  have  him  so  ;  the  world  requires  him  to  (ill 
that  position,  and  the  wife  prefers  that  he  should.  But 
the  probabilities  are  about  equal  that  he,  being  morally  her 
inferior,  will  not  be  fit  for  it,  and  that  therefore  she  will 
find  herself  in  a  false  position.  There  will  then  be  an  inter- 
val of  intense  misery  for  the  wife.  Her  education  and 
prejudices  will  make  her  try  to  submit  at  first  to  what  her 
sense  knows  to  be  impossible  ;  but  eventually  she  is  forced 
out  of  her  unnatural  position  by  circumstances.  To  save 
her  house  and  family  she  must  rebel,  take  the  reins  of  gov- 
ernment into  her  own  hands,  and  face  life,  a  disappointed 
and  lonely  woman." 

"Heaven  help  her  I"  said  Claudia.  "One  knows  that 
the  futu.e  of  a  woman  in  that  state  of  mind  is  only  a  ques- 
tion of  circumstance  and  temperament ;  she  may  rise, 
but " 


IDEALA.  187 

Ideala  looked  up  quickly. 

"  But  she  may  fall,  you  were  going  to  say — yes.  But  yon 
know  if  she  does  it  is  her  owu  fault.  She  must  know  better.'* 

"  She  may  not  be  quite  mistress  of  herself  at  the  time- 
she  may  be  fascinated  ;  she  may  be  led  on  I "  I  interposed 
quickly.  Claudia  seemed  to  have  forgotten.  "But  ore 
tiring  is  certain,  if  she  has  any  real  good  in  her,  she  will 
always  stop  before  it  is  too  late." 

"  1  think,"  said  Claudia,  "  it  would  be  better,  after  all,  if 
women  were  taught  to  expect  to  find  themselves  their  hus- 
band's equals— the  disappointment  would  not  be  BO  great  if 
the  husband  proved  interior  ;  but  when  a  woman  has  been 
led  to  look  for  so  much,  her  imagination  is  full  of  dreams 
in  which  he  figures  as  an  infallible  being ;  she  expects  him 
to  be  her  refuge,  support  and  comfort  at  all  times ;  and  when 
a  man  has  such  a  height  to  fall  from  in  any  one's  estima- 
tion, there  can  be  but  little  of  him  left  if  he  does  tall." 

Ideala  sighed,  and  after  a  short  pause  she  said  : 

"  I  have  been  wondering  what  makes  it  poss.ble  for  a 
•woman  to  love  a  man.  Not  the  flesh  that  she  sees  and  can 
touch,  though  that  may  attract  her  as  the  color  ot  the  flower 
attracts.  It  must  be  the  mind  that  is  in  him—  the  scent  of 
the  flower,  as  it  were.  If  she  finds  eventually  that  his  mind 
is  corrupt,  she  must  shrink  from  it  as  from  any  other  form 
of  corruption,  and  finally  abandon  him  on  account  of  it,  as 
she  would  abandon  the  flower  if  she  found  its  odor  fetid  — 
indeed,  she  has  already  abandoned  her  husband  wheu  she 
acknowledges  that  he  is  not  what  she  thought  him/'  She 
paused  a  moment,  and  then  went  on  passionately  :  "  I  caa 
not  tell  you  what  it  was— the  battling  day  by  day  With  a 
power  that  was  irresistible  because  it  had  to  put  forth  no 
strength  to  accomplish  its  work;  it  simply  was  itself,  and 
by  being  itself  it  lowered  me.  I  can  not  tell  you  what  it 
was  to  leel  myself  going  down,  and  not  to  be  able  to  help  it, 
try  as  I  would  ;  to  feel  the  gradual  change  in  my  mind  as 
it  grew  to  harbor  thoughts  which  were  reflections  of  his 
thoughts,  low  thoughts;  and  to  be  fill  d  with  ideas,  recol- 
lections of  his  conversations,  which  had  caused  me  intiuite 
disgust  at  the  time,  but  remained  with  me  like  the  taste  of 
a  nauseous  drug,  until  I  almost  acquired  a  morbid  liking 
for  them.  Oh,  if  I  could  save  other  women  from  that  I" 

Claudia  hastily  interposed  to  divert  her. 
"  That  is  a  good  idea,  the  higher  education  of  men,  she 
said.  "  I  don't  know  whether  they  have  abandoned  hope  : 
or  whether  they  think  themselves  already  perfect,  certain 
it  is,  the  idea  of  improving  themselves  does  not  seem  to  oc- 
cur to  them  often.  And  we  vvaiic  good  men  in  society.  If 


188  IDEALA. 

the  clergy  and  priests  are  good,  it  is  only  what  is  required 
of  them,  what  everybody  expects,  and,  therefore,  their 
goodness  is  accepted  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  is  viewed  as 
indifferently  as  other  matters  of  course.  One  good  man  in 
society  has  more  effect  as  an  example  than  ten  priests." 

"  But  you  have  not  told  us  what  you  propose  to  do, 
Ideala-,"  I  said. 

"  I  hope  it  is  nothing  unwomanly,"  Claudia  interposed 
anxiously. 

Ideala  looked  at  her  and  laughed,  and  Claudia  laughed, 
too,  the  moment  after  she  had  spoken.  The  fear  of  Ideala 
doing  anything  unwomanly  was  absurd,  even  to  herself. 

"An  unwomanly  woman  is  such  a  dreadful  creature," 
Claudia  added  apologetically. 

"Yes,"  said  Ideala,  "but  you  should  pity  her.  In  nine 
cases  out  of  ten  there  is  a  great  wrong  or  a  great  grief  at 
the  bottom  of  all  her  un  womanliness—  perhaps  both;  and 
if  she  shrieks,  you  may  be  sure  that  she  is  suffering; 
ease  her  pain,  and  she  will  be  quiet  enough.  The  average 
•woman  who  is  happy  in  her  marriage  does  not  care  to  know- 
more  of  the  world  than  she  can  learn  in  her  own  nursery, 
nor  to  see  more  of  it.  as  a  rule,  than  she  can  see  from  her 
own  garden  gate.  She  is  a  great  power ;  but,  unfortu- 
nately, there  is  so  very  little  of  her  1 

"What  I  want  to  do  is  to  make  women  discontented — 
you  have  heard  of  a  noble  spirit  of  discontent?  I  thought 
for  a  long  time  that  everything  had  been  done  that  could 
be  done  to  make  the  world  better;  but  now  I  see  that  there 
is  still  one  thing  more  to  be  tried.  Women  have  nev»>r  yet 
united  to  use  their  influence  eteadily  and  all  together 
against  that  of  which  thi-y  disapprove.  They  work  too 
much  for  themselves,  each  trying  to  make  their  own  life 
happier.  They  have  yet  to  learn  to  take  a  wider  view  of 
things,  and  to  be  shown  that  the  only  way  to  gain  their 
end  is  by  working  for  everybody  else,  with  intent  to  make 
the  whole  world  better,  which  means  happier.  And  in 
order  to  accomplish  this  they  must  be  taught  that  they 
have  only  to  will  it— each  in  her  own  family  and  among 
her  own  friends ;  that  after  having  agreed  with  the  rest 
about  what  they  mean  to  put  down,  they  have  only  to  go 
home  and  use  their  influence  to  that  end,  quietly,  consist- 
ently, and  without  wavering,  and  the  thing  will  be  done. 
Our  influence  is  like  those  strong  currents  which  run  be- 
neath the  surface  of  the  ocean  without  disturbing  it,  and 
yet  with  irresistible  force,  and  at  a  rate  that  may  be  calcu- 
lated. It  is  to  help  iu  the  direction  of  that  force  that  I  am 
Ijoiug  to  devote  my  life.  Do  not  imagine,"  she  went  on 


IDEALA.  189 

hurriedly,  "that  I  think  myself  fit  for  such  a  work.  I 
have  had  conscientious  scruples — been  sorely  troubled  about 
my  own  unworthiness,  which  seemed  to  unfit  me  for  any 
good  work.  But  now  I  see  things  differently.  One  may- 
be made  an  instrument  for  good  without  merit  of  onefe 
own.  So  long  as  we  do  not  deceive  ourselves  by  thinking 
we  are  worthy,  ?nd  so  long  as  we  are  trying  our  best  to 
become  so,  I  think  we  may  hope;  I  think  we  may  even 

know  that  we  shall  eventually " 

She  stopped,  and  looked  at  me. 

"  Be  made  worthy,"  said  Claudia,  kissing  her  ;  "and  if 
it  were  not  so,  Ideala,  if  everybody  had  to  begin  by  being 
as  good  themselves  as  they  want  others  to  be,  there  would 
be  no  good  workers  left  in  the  world  at  all." 

At  this  moment  a  noisy  party  burst  in  upon  our  grave 
debate  and  carried  Ideala  off  for  a  ride.  We  saw  them 
leave  the  house,  and  watched  them  ride  away  until  the  last 
glimpse  of  them  was  veiled  by  the  misty  brightness  of  the 
frosty  air  and  the  morning  sunshine. 

"  How  well  she  looks  I "  Claudia  exclaimed;  "  better  than 

any  of  them.  She  has  quite  recovered,  and  none  the  worse." 

"I  do  not  know  about  recovery,"  I  answered  dubiously. 

"  She  will  never " 

But  Claudia  interrupted  hotly  : 

"  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say,  and  I  do  wish  you 
v.rould  leave  off  speaking  of  Ideala  in  that  way.  Any  one, 
to  hear  you,  would  suppose  she  had  committed  a  sin,  and 
you  know  quite  well  that  that  was  not  the  case.  If  she 
acitd  without  common  prudence— and  I  will  not  deny  that 
she  did— it  was  entirely  your  own  fault.  She  has  never  been 
intimate  with  any  man  but  yourself,  and  you  have  made 
her  believe  that  all  men  are  like  you.  How  could  she 
harbor  suspicion  when  she  did  not  know  what  to  suspect?  Of 
course,  she  saw  everything  wrongly  and  awry.  The  old  life 
had  become  impossible  to  her,  and  she  nearly  made  a  mis- 
take a"s  to  what  the  new  one  should  be,  that  was  all.  I 
know  she  wavered  for  a  moment,  but  the  weakness  was 
more  physical  than  moral,  I  think.  Her  vision  was 
clourled  at  the  time,  but  as  soon .  as  she  was  restored  to 
health  she  saw  things  clearly  enough.  She  is  a  great  and 
good  woman,  pure-hearted  and  full  of  charity.  God  bless 
her  for  all  her  tenderness,  and  for  her  wonderiul  power  to 
love.  He  alone  can  count  the  number  who  have  reason  to 
wish  her  well." 

"That  is  true,"  I  answered.  "  And  I  was  merely  going 
to  remark,  when  you  interrupted  me,  that  she  will  never 
tloiiik  herself  '  none  the  worse ' " 


190  1DEALA. 

"I  don't  see  what  difference  that  makes,1'  Claudia  again 
interposed.  "  She  always  did  think  herself  least  of  the 
least  when  she  thought  of  herself  at  all,  and  that  was  not 
often.  You  are  dwelling  too  long  on  the  past,  really,  and 
making  too  much  of  it.  Men,  when  they  are  saints,  are 
twice  as  bad  as  women." 

I  pointed  out  to  my  sister  something  confusing  in  her 
way  of  expressing  the  fact,  but  my  kindness  seemed  to  ex- 
asperate her. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean  quite  well,"  she  said  tartly. 

"Yes,  Jknow,"  I  rejoined  ;  "but  I  wanted  to  help  you 
to  make  yourself  intelligible  to  other  people." 

Claudia  made  a  gesture  of  impatience,  but  laughed,  and 
left  me ;  and  I  remained  for  a  long  time  thinking  over  all 
that  Ideala  had  said,  and  also  thinking  of  her  as  she  looked 
at  the  time  ;  and  the  subject  was  so  inspiring  that,  although 
my  strong  point  is  landscape,  in  an  ambitious  mood  I  be- 
gan to  paint  an  allegorical  picture  of  her  as  a  mother  nurs- 
ing the  Infant  Goodness  of  the  race.  She  saw  it  when  it 
was  nearly  finished,  but  did  not  recognize  herself,  and  ex- 
claimed : 

"  What  a  gaunt  creature  !  and  that  baby  weighs  at  least 
twelve  stone  I" 

The  picture  was  never  finished. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

WE  soon  found  that  Ideala,  having  at  last  put  her  hand 
to  the  plow,  worked  with  a  will,  and  although  she  was  true 
to  ber  principle  that  a  woman's  best  work  is  done  beneath 
the  surface,  1  think  her  own  labors  will  eventually  make 
themselves  felt  nith'a  good  result  in  the  world.  But  the 
life  she  has  chosen  for  herself  is  martyrdom,  and  her 
womanly  shrinking  from  the  suffering  she  would  alleviate 
is  never  lessened  by  use.  Yet  she  does  not  waver.  Other 
women  admire  her  devotion,  and  follow  in  her  footsteps  ; 
they  do  not  doubt  but  that  she  has  chosen  the  better  fart ; 
but  I  fancy  that  most  men  who  have  seen  her  dra%v  the 
little  children  about  her  and  forget  everything  for  a  mo- 
ment but  her  delight  in  them,  have  felt  that  there  must 
be  something  wrong  in  the  world  when  such  a  woman 
misses  her  vocation,  and  has  to  scatter  her  love  to  the  four 
winds  of  heaven,  for  want  of  an  object  upon  which  to  con- 
centrate it  in  all  is  strength. 

I  dp  not  know  if  her  feeling  for  Lorrimer  has  changed. 
My  sister  declares,  in  her  positive  way,  that  of  course  it 


IDEALA.  191 

has,  completely ;  but  my  sister  is  not  always  right.  Idea'la 
has  never  mentioned  his  name  since  she  returned  to  us 
nor  given  us  any  other  clew  by  which  we  could  judge. 
Only  on  one  occasion,  when  some  allusion  wad  made  to 
the  course  she  had  intended  to  pursue  in  the  past,  she  ex- 
claimed, "Oh,  how  could  1 1"  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands. 

From  where  I  sit  just  now  I  can  see  her  walking  up  the 
avenue.  She  is  as  straight  as  an  arrow,  young-looking,  and 
fresh.  Her  step  is  firm  acd  light  and  elastic,  and  she  moves 
with  an  easy  grace  only  possible  when  every  muscle  is  un- 
constrained. Her  dress  is  a  work  of  art,  light  in  weight, 
but  rich  in  color  and  texture. 

"  What  a  beautiful  woman  !"  I  think  involuntarily. 

I  see  her  daily,  and  pay  her  that  tribute  every  time  we 
meet,  for — 

Age  can  not  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety. 

Her  intellect  and  selflessness  preserve  her  youth.  She 
is  changed,  certainly.  She  has  arisen,  and  can  return  no 
more  to  the  lower  walks,  to  the  old,  purposeless  life  and 
desultory  ways  ;  but  yet  she  is  the  same  Ideala,  and  holds 
you  always  expectant— you,  who  s^e  beneath  the  surface. 
The  world  will  call  her  cold  and  self  contained  till  the  end, 
and  so  she  is  and  will  be — a  snow-crowned  volcano,  with 
wonderful  force  of  fire  working  wiihiu.  And  she  will  not 
stop  where  she  is  ;  there  is  something  yet  to  come — some 
f  uriher  development — something  more  -  something  beyond! 
and  she  makes  you  feel  that  there  is.  What  she  says  of 
other  women  is  true  of  herself. 

"  Do  not  stand  in  their  way,"  she  begs  ;  "  do  not  hinder 
them— above  all,  do  not  stop  them.  They  are  running 
•water  ;  if  you  cheek  them  they  stagnate,  and  you  must 
suffer  yourself  from  their  noisome  exhalations.  For  the 
moral  nature  is  like  water ;  it  must  have  movement,  and 
air,  and  sunshine  to  stay  corruption  and  keep  it  sweet  and 
wholesome  ;  and  its  movement  is  good  works  ;  its  air  faith 
in  their  efficiency  ;  its  sunshine  the  evidence  of  this  and 
Lope." 

Comparative  anatomists  have  proved  that  the  human 
brain,  irom  its  first  appearance  as  a  semi-fluid  and  shape- 
less mass,  passes  in  succession  through  the  several  struc- 
tures that  constitute  the  permanent  and  perfect  brains  of . 
fishes,  reptiias,  birds  and  mammalia ;  but  ultimately  it 
passes  beyond  them  all.  uud  acquires  a  marvelous  develop- 
ment of  its  own.  And  BO  it  is  with  tho  human  soul.  It 


192  IDEALA. 

must  rise  through  analogous  stages,  and  add  to  its  ow» 
strength  and  beauty  by  daily  bread  of  love  and  thought, 
growing  to  greatness  by  help  of  these  aliments  only,  and 
reaching  ultimately  to  such  perfection  as  we  cannot  divine, 
for  the  end  is  not  here.  But  we  might  reach  it  sooner 
than  we  do  were  it  not  for  our  own  impatience.  Growth 
is  so  exquisitely  minute,  it  bursts  upon  us  an  accomplished 
fact.  We  know  this,  and  yet  we  would  see  the  process  ; 
and  not  seeing  it,  we  lose  faith,  waver,  hesitate,  stop,  and 
recoil— a  going  back  pour  mieux  sauter  it  is  with  the 
choicer  spirii  ;  but  we  are  all  deficient  in  hope,  all  hav  our 
retrograde  moments  of  duspair.  We  do  not  look  abouo  us 
enough  to  see  what  is  being  done  for  others,  how  they  are 
progressing,  by  what  strange  paths  they  are  led.  We  keep 
our  eyes  on  our  own  ground  too  much,  and,  because  we 
will  not  compare  cheerfully,  we  think  our  own  way  the 
roughest,  our  own  journey  the  longest — if  there  be  any  end 
to  it  at  all  1  Yet  all  the  time  we  might  see  the  end  if  oniy^ 
we  would  look  up.  And  we  need  never  despair  and  lae 
need  never  be  cold  and  comfortless,  if  we  would  but  lov 
and  remember. 

For,  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking, 

Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain, 
Far  out,  through  creeks  and  iniets  making, 

Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main  I 

Ideala  raises  her  eyes  to  mine  now,  and  smiles  as  she 
passes  beneath  my  window. 

Another  woman— a  woman  whom  Claudia  had  long  re- 
fused to  know— is  leaning  on  her  arm,  talking  to  her 
earnestly.  And  that  is  Ideala's  attitude  always.  She 
gathers  the  useless  units  of  society  about  her.  and  makes 
them  worthy  women.  There  is  no  kind  of  sorrow  for 
which  she  has  not  found  comfort,  no  folly  she  has  not  been 
successful  in  checking,  no  vice  she  has  not  managed  to 
cure,  and  no  form  of  despair  which  she  has  not  relieved 
with  hope.  Her  own  experiences  have  taught  her  to  sym- 
pathize with  every  phase  of  teeling,  and  be  lenient  to  every 
^bortcoming  and  excess.  Wherever  she  is  you  may  he 
sure  that  another  woman  is  there  also — some  one  with  a 
sorrowful  history,  probably  ;  and  you  may  be  equally  sure 
that  she  is  leaning  on  Ideala.  God  bless  her  J 

THE  END. 


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